


Falling, Flying. (All My Love on Paper Planes)

by Queertrees



Series: Falling, Flying (All My Love on Paper Planes) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bisexuality, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Homophobia, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Non-Chronological, Sexual Content, Swearing, Unilock, victor trevor is not an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 75
Words: 56,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queertrees/pseuds/Queertrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?" </i><br/> <br/>A very long time ago, Victor Trevor was sent by Mycroft Holmes to look after his little brother. </p><p>Sherlock's years in university, his travels afterwards, his struggles with his brother and his relationship with drugs are not things Sherlock speaks of much, so John is intrigued when Sherlock begins to reveal things about his past. Things like Victor Trevor.</p><p>John Watson can tell there's more to this story than what Sherlock chooses to tell. Slowly, in a story that spans 1985-2011, the pieces are fitted together. </p><p>Based on The Adventure of the Gloria Scott and the events of the preceding years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling, Flying.

**Author's Note:**

> This is finally a finished work!

_I need to fly, I need to fly, I need to fall_  
 _that’s all_  
 _I need to fall, fall, fall, I need to fly_  
 _it’s that, or die.  
_

_If I fall then I will die._  
 _If I fly then I must hide.  
_

 

###### 13 March 2011

The days when he makes his bed are nice. Not that the others aren’t. But there is something about bringing him his tea, and having that extra small sense of calm when I know he won’t have lost something in them, his pants, a file, an eyeball. I guess it’s like seeing a kid grow up.


	2. Backs of Heads

######  30 November 1996 

He was 15. In a lecture in the dead of winter. He’d run in late and had to sit near the back door with the constant, whistling draft. No one even glared at him anymore for keeping his leather jacket on; they’d given up glaring at him for much heavier offenses.

He tried to concentrate. He really did. Even if what the lecturer ACTUALLY was talking about was hopelessly, hair-rippingly dull, he told himself to listen to what Mycroft had told him. Get SOMETHING out of it, anything, even if it wasn’t what he was meant to glean from it. Deduce something about the lecturer, about the back of Victor’s head, about the way the tingling nerve cells in the crooks of his elbows incited attention from his brain. He unsnapped the wrist of his jacket and pushed it up, working it up his arm in a flustered, panicked, jerky motion. His fingers were freezing and tore at the fabric covering his weak limb, damp with sweat. The girl next to him cast a judgmental, incredulous look over him. “Eczema,” he told her, weighing the motions of her eyebrows and the path of her sight. She’d bought it. Not that he really would have cared if she hadn’t. It was more interesting to see what people would and wouldn’t believe, and how they would shape the facts they saw to fit what they thought was the readiest truth. Maybe if he’d told her the real story, that he couldn’t stop itching because it had been minutes, hours since he last shot up (so long that the ticks on the clock once again became entities that mattered), she would have rolled her eyes and pegged him for a liar, a poseur, a storyteller. What an idiot. There were rumors about him all over the university, she couldn’t be THAT dull. His fingers scratched a burning red patch into his arm, and he felt his blood pulsing in his ears.


	3. Clouds and Sun and Cigarettes

###### July 2010

It was hot. That was the main thought on everyone’s (most people’s) minds. So hot that it clouded out any other thoughts, any other questions; blinded their eyes. The sheet metal that lined the stairs that hung off the side of the building burned when he touched it. The metal glared in the sun, as did their white shirts and their skin. Still, the only advantage they had was stealth, which meant a slow progress down the stairs, which would have rattled like a gong had they run down them. A gong that would, presumably, cut through the clouds in the heads of the people who they were hiding from. Presumably.

There were no clouds in his head. He knew that it was hot, that his hand had felt the sear of the metal as he touched it, but that was just an environmental variable that caused people around him to react slower, think slower, be more or less likely to be in certain places at certain times. He looked to see if it was affecting John; he would assume it would not, not after Afghanistan. He was correct- this particular environmental factor seemed to sharpen, not dull, John’s perceptions and movements. He stared at the back of John’s neck, where the blonde hairs lying against his skin were darkened and dampened with sweat. He could already see that when John reached his arm forward, the fabric of his sleeve gave way to reveal the contrast between the pale skin underneath and the rapidly darkening area that was uncovered. John just got dark, didn’t get freckled. Jealous? Inconsequential. Getting to the street quietly was not something he had to concentrate on, so when he saw that someone had left a pile of smoked cigarette butts in a corner on the third to last landing, he let something peer out of the usually-closed compartment of his brain, and he remembered huddling in a corner like that one, on the stairs of an abandoned building (abandoned by polite society, at least). The heat had been just as bad then, too, but his physical comfort had never been much of a bother, least of all back then. Back then, the sun had freckled his forearms, and he himself had freckled the insides of them. And the endless cigarettes. Maybe if he’d smoked enough they would’ve formed a wall around him and blocked him from everything for good. But they always ran out... one of the only reasons he’d had to move at all.


	4. Icarus or Pythia

######  1998-2003 

He was never destitute; he was barely ever out of control, at least in the eyes of those who didn’t know him well... which left everyone except Victor and maybe his brother. He kept his self-discipline and his self-control, although his brother never thought so. He was smart. There’s an understatement. He was self-aware. He knew why he did what he did, and chose to do it, and when it wasn’t his choice anymore but a chemical need, he was aware of that as well. He was no more of an outcast than he had been at any other point in his life, in fact, rather less so- he was included in all the circles that sought to benefit from the addition of the rich, bright, young, and interesting. And he was that, if nothing else. He was invited to every party in every conceivable circle in London. They loved him. Well, not him. But they loved his show. His musical talent was impeccable, he spoke uncountable languages, he was impervious to the advances of the femme fatales and the beautiful boys, he fought (and won) any fight forced upon him, and he revealed the inner lives and actions of those around him with the ease and grace of an oracle. Any party with him was sure to have the best gossip in town. He was a challenge that no lover nor fighter nor liar could resist. A shining, untouchable star that burned you if you tried to touch it.

But like every oracle, the time came when people wanted to plug up their ears and run. He had beaten and disappointed too many challengers, burned too many people. They started avoiding his eyes out of fear, hiding from his light. The calls stopped coming.

He didn't mind; he had been growing bored of all of them, anyway. He chose the more interesting option. Being in beautiful rooms or the trendiest, most underground warehouses while surrounded by idiots was not painful to replace with being in his own beautiful rooms (courtesy of his older brother, of course) with no one but his own mind, and the changes he induced in it. There was a quiet woman who lived by herself above a small shop and across from a police station. He’d picked her out just by watching her hands; he could see she sold the very best. Without even speaking their deal had been made. She would not place deals over a call, and made him text her his orders instead. She was there in the same little flat the day he arrived back in London. In all the years of each other’s acquaintance, they had probably spoken nine words each to each other. She would have gladly made house calls every time, for him, but he often preferred the walk. When he did, she let him sit at her desk, a dusky green study with many small drawers. In one particular drawer there would be an envelope waiting, which he would remove and replace with another full of money, and while he rolled up his sleeves, she would light two cigarettes between her lips before placing one of them between his.


	5. Waiting for the Shoe to Drop

###### July 2010

John still just thought it was lethargy taking over; he hadn’t yet observed the cause of the change in behavior. He had, however, started to notice the change in behavior itself and the patterns that led to it. The sudden decision to take a walk. Alone. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but slightly more so was the lingering scent of cigarette smoke that hung in the air when the need for these walks came up. And then in the days following it, he knew that John noticed that he didn’t leave his room, didn’t leave his bed. He saw the tightness in his lips when he saw the sheets tangled into twisted ropes. It was almost the only interesting outside stimulation left: observing John, waiting to see when he would suddenly understand the data. Maybe he would offer some to John. It might even improve his mind, if he’d give it a chance. No- no chance.Maybe he’d just offer some to see what John did. Punch to the face or immediately pack his bags. 

John had gone out. A date. Sherlock had apparently misjudged the woman, though, because John came home twenty-two minutes before he had expected him, and alone. Still had been time enough though, although the girl was still over. She turned from him to John. John looked at them both... and came to the entirely wrong conclusion. They both were smoking. John saw his wrinkled clothes and rolled-up sleeves. Please, the girl’s clothes were impeccable and he hadn’t changed his clothes for days; it was nothing new. John’s voice told him that John looked from the bedroom back at them. God. Post-coital smoking? He had expected better of John, although he told himself he shouldn’t have. He slid the packet of bills towards the girl, who took off her shoe and put them inside it. After she had slid it back on, she walked past John and quietly out the door. 

“Was she... she one of your homeless network, then?”

He stood up and headed for his room. Part of him wanted to reply, “No, she’s my drug dealer,” but he still wanted to see how long it would take John to figure that out, so he said nothing and closed the door behind him, and lay in the dark.


	6. Victor

###### 2 Sept 1996

He had first met Victor at university. It was the first day for both of them, although he already had more experience and knowledge of the grounds, having used Mycroft’s time there to his own advantage. Still, an impeccably dressed 15 year old who looked 12 was bound to stand out one way or another, especially when that boy refused to speak to anyone and instead just stared, expressionless, at any attempt to converse with him. Victor had come out of his residence hall for a cigarette and noticed him, standing against a wall across the courtyard like he was waiting for something. Victor saw the way he stared like a one of the gargoyles, and laughed to himself as he looked down at his lighter. When he looked up, the gargoyle was in front of him, asking for a smoke. 

“You’re too young to buy them yourself,” Victor said, but handed him one as he spoke. The boy said nothing, but continued glaring as Victor lit his cigarette. Inhaling deeply and slowly, the boy nodded. Victor smiled.

“Rough first day then?”

“No, it was splendid; I love being surrounded by idiots.”

“How fortunate. I’ve heard they love being surrounded by sullen children.”

The boy scoffed, “You sound just like my brother.”

Victor’s easy smile never became false or strained, and it remained even while he dragged on his cigarette.

“I am nothing like Mycroft Holmes.”

And, leaving the boy momentarily stunned, Victor strolled off across the courtyard and through the archway to walk among the other eager first years.


	7. Data and the Deal

###### 23 Sept 1996

They didn’t meet again for three weeks, in which time he was able to conclude that he wanted nothing to do with the other students around him, and ensure that they wanted nothing to do with him, either. The only times he was around other students was during fencing lessons and in the residence halls. He had made a frankly less than charming impression on his floormates in his first few days of residency. When one of them, Sebastian, was making excuses to the other, Freddie, about why he hadn't been able to meet him for drinks the night before, Sherlock quietly looked up from his desk and pointed out that Sebastian had not, in fact, been ill with a stomach bug but had instead been in bed with Freddie’s girlfriend Helena. When Freddie turned red with anger, he said that he really shouldn’t be upset because the woman had not enjoyed herself with Sebastian at all.

Freddie only had one word for Sherlock: “Freak.”

Sebastian, Freddie, and Helena were able to put aside their differences enough to present a united front of malice towards him at all times from then on, and they shunned his company as much as possible. 

With only their idiocy as a distraction, he grew restless and discontent, and when he learned that one of the boys he’d met through fencing had been expelled for mysterious reasons, he managed to arrive at the boy’s hall as he was waiting for a car to pick him up. The boy was angry enough to give him any information he wanted, and he’d seen enough of him to trust at least that he was a strange one. He tore a paper and wrote an address on it, and slipped it in Sherlock’s hand.

“I’d say I’d give you the rest of what I have, but I think I’m going to be needing it once my father gets through with me,” the boy told him, as a black car with black windows drove up to the window. The boy squared his shoulders and walked out to it, and Sherlock tucked the paper in with the cash he held tight in his pocket, and went to find a cab.

Later that night, he was admitted into the university sick ward with two broken ribs, two black eyes, a bloodied mouth, and a variety of purple and green hued bruises across his face and body. His inability to stop talking at certain times had landed him in the middle of a drugs deal gone wrong. He had been robbed of his money, watch, and shoes, kneeling with a knife pressed to his neck in an empty church half an hour away from the campus. He hadn’t even been able to cop. At the point when he felt a boot snap his rib, when he was concentrating very hard on anything that wasn’t where he was right now, everything just stopped. The boots and fists disappeared. He opened his eyes as much as he could and saw that the boots had been replaced with a pair of legs in crisply pressed trousers, with polished new shoes with a good amount of wear. Worn every day, then. It was then that he passed out.

He awoke to a voice. A voice singing Schubert. Victor. He couldn’t see his shoes, since Victor was sitting next to the hospital bed and they were therefore below his line of sight, but the trousers he could see matched the ones from before. To the right of the bed, a nurse was straightening the sheets on an already immaculate bed. He tried to sit up and she saw he was awake. She turned and walked briskly out the door to the nurse’s station. Victor kept singing but his voice was affected by the upturn of his mouth into a smile.

“You were kissing her,” he said to Victor. Victor stopped singing at the end of a phrase but not at the end of the song.

“Yes,” was his only reply, but then as the boy was giving him the stony-eyed gargoyle look again, he added, “It’s something to do.” He paused a moment and tilted his head, peering at Sherlock with the same smile, “Is it something you’d like to do?” It was not the baiting question it usually was, but simply quizzical.

“She has a boyfriend, you know.” Victor’s eyes flashed, changing his smile from just easy to mischievous.

“Yes, and rumor has it I do too.”

Since Victor had decided not to address the reason he was in his hospital room, Sherlock decided to ignore the issue as well, “How do you know who my brother is?”

“You’ve got ‘Holmes’ written all over you.”

“Don’t be stupid, that’s not it.”

“Correct. A true Holmes would figure it out himself.”

The boy’s glare grew darker, and Victor continued.

“Glare at me all you want, my dear Medusa. You call everyone idiots, well, show me that you’re not one yourself.”

“Why should I?”

“To satisfy your own curiosity. I know who your brother is, I know you’re here early and conditionally, and I know those conditions were very much broken last night. You’re clearly bored, but that’s no reason to be boring.”

Sherlock’s glare remained, but he looked Victor up and down.

“Your father works with my brother. Your family is old and was rich, but throughout your whole life they have been poor. Your father is concerned with status, while you are only concerned with your father. You’re close to your father, and he’s arranged with my brother that you be sent here for university, as long as you keep an eye on me. You’re bored here, too, but you don’t want to disappoint your father.”

“Is that all?”

“All that’s relevant.”

“Prove to me you didn’t just hack into your brother’s e-mail, then.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Your watch would have been very expensive about 50 years ago. It has been kept clean, and for many years, was on a wrist much bigger than yours (one of the holes in the band is much more worn than the others, but not the one that you wear it on). The hole you wear it on and the one that’s worn are the only two that have seen wear, so it most likely went directly from the larger person to you. So more likely a father than a grandfather, though possibly an uncle. Even though you clean the watch, you’ve never cleaned the ring you wear, which is newish and something that someone has bought for you. So, you clean the watch because that’s how our father would like it to be kept, but your own things don’t get that consideration. Also, your clothes are new and good quality, but they were bought just for you going away to school, and they are the only good clothes you have. You haven’t taken care to iron them, but you have sewn the belt loop back on where it ripped. You’ve mended your clothes before but it’s still clearly not the stitch of a laundress. Your bearing, speech, and manner say raised well but not spoiled. Your behavior says you can afford to push the rules slightly, but you’re too careful to do anything that would get you or your father in serious trouble.”

“And the deal with Mycroft?”

“You’re a year older than the standard undergraduate age, but it’s not because you aren’t clever enough to come right away (you were here in September for the extended term, so you’re in honors, like me), you just couldn’t afford it until... something happened. You’re getting an allowance, more than your own family would be able to afford. You’ve bought the brand of cigarettes I prefer, although you usually roll your own. Mine cost significantly more. Your allowance provides for these, as well. The only person who would know what brand I prefer and supply money to buy them in order to gain my attention would be my brother. In addition, you followed me to the house last night, and wield power great enough to stop an attack without getting a scratch yourself. That’s my brother all over.”

“And?”

“And I hacked into his e-mail.” Victor’s smile grew wider.

“Well then,” he tossed a bright new packet of cigarettes onto the hospital bedsheet, “I would have bought you flowers but I thought you’d appreciate these more.” The boy just glared at him.

“You took his money to spy on me.” Victor turned and raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, of course I did. And I will continue to do so. And yet I have made no effort to conceal or deny that fact, and did also happen to save your life last night. I need money, as do you and I think we both can agree that your brother can afford to keep us in slightly more comfort than we would otherwise enjoy.”

“I don’t need someone watching over me.”

“I’m certainly glad we don’t agree on everything. That would be quite too tedious.”

“So you’re going to report to him on what happened last night.”

“Can you give me a reason why I shouldn’t?”

“Because then he’ll tighten his little dog leash around my neck, and if he had any sense at all he would realize that will just make me work harder to break it.”

“And if he does not protect you, what do you think will happen then?”

“I don’t need someone watching over me!”

The effort it took to yell caused Sherlock to fall into a fit of coughing, which momentarily caused his ribs to spasm and his breath to be cut short. Victor grabbed the wrist of the nurse who was right outside the door, and waited outside while she calmed the boy and re-wrapped the bandage around his torso. When he came back inside, Sherlock had unsuccessfully tried to wipe the tears from his eyes. Crying never meant he was sad, he just couldn’t stop it when he got angry.

“Yes, I can see that you handle yourself perfectly on your own,” Victor said once he could breathe again, and moved his hand to the boy’s hair, stroking it out of his face, “You’ll be laid up in here for weeks, probably. What do you honestly expect me to tell your brother about why you’re missing school? That my dog bit you?”

“You don’t have a dog.” Victor laughed.

“Excellent observation, dear.”

Sherlock looked up into Victor’s face and held his eyes, “Why don’t you get one. You’d like that better than being with the other students here, and it would give you someone to look after,” he said, with a little bit of a sneer. Victor raised his eyebrow.

“Well, my pet, we both want so many things. If I tell your brother my fictional dog snapped at your perfectly well-heeled heels, then you in turn, once you are able, must attend slightly more than the minimum number of classes required, eat regularly, must not start using again, and must not upset the professors too greatly. That is my assignment and my deal with you.” The boy looked defeated and lost.

“What am I supposed to do here?”

“I was thinking boxing, once you’re up and about again. You’re not a fat lazy delicate flower like your brother, and if you want to stay that way you won’t lie around in an opiate haze all day, you’ll do something to keep your corporeal self as well as your mental self active. And then maybe next time you got in trouble I wouldn’t have to save you.”

“Boxing...”

“Yes. It’s an art. Like dancing or chess, only with more hitting.” This finally got a laugh from the boy.

“I think I’d like that.” Sherlock hesitated, smiling now, “Do you really think Mycroft is a fat lazy flower?”

“Would I say it to his brother’s face if I did not?” Sherlock laughed.

“Neither you nor I can match him in intelligence, but that’s not something to hold against a person,” Victor continued. Sherlock’s face fell.

“He’s always been miles ahead of me. People think I’m a genius and then they meet him and they realize that while we are an exceptional family, he of course is the star.”

“But you excel in ways he does not. You have the energy and restlessness that will make you stay busy. That energy will make you famous if you’d like it to. It’ll give you anything you want, really. Just because you have to work for something to be accomplished, and weren't born with it, does not make it any less worthwhile. Remember that, my little jealous god.”


	8. Prosaic Way of Forming a Friendship

###### Sept 1996

The boy had never had what he believed anyone could rightly call friends. He’d had nannies, and tutors, and a mother and a brother and somewhere a father, and there were people his own age, most a little older, some even younger, that he knew from the parks and the secluded tunnels and buildings they frequented, though none of these had really been interested in spending time with him for his own sake.

But Sherlock had to admit he was growing more and more to like Victor. He never called him a freak. He never fawned over him. He was not an idiot. Victor was being paid by his brother and had proved he was the kind of person who would do things to make others happy, even if it meant doing something he would rather not do. Like spying on his fellow students. And yet in spite of this, he did not seem to be _unwillingly_ spending time with him, and did not pry for pieces of information that he could have fed back to Mycroft. He visited him most days. He usually brought books, ones that were far ahead of what they were both supposed to be learning, and he always brought gossip. Sherlock could see why Mycroft had liked Victor. He had an ease and an openness about him that made everyone like him, made him seem like someone they wanted to talk to. He’d lent an ear to nearly everyone in their form before a month was out, and he brought all the news back to Sherlock, who knew most of it anyway just from looking out his window. Victor seemed to enjoy being Sherlock’s spy, watching out for him in more ways than the one Mycroft had requested. They laughed together about the idiots they knew would in a few years be running the world. Sherlock saw that behind the openness of Victor’s face, there was a hardness that came from having to fight for respect among people he disliked, a constant defence he required for his presence to go unchallenged. That quality that made people like him was well-crafted, he wore it like some people wear their beauty- knowing its use but despising the users. Still, there was a kindness behind even his defences, a forgiveness. He had not worked at retaining his family’s position in society for his own sake, but rather for the love of his old man. The sympathy he gave to those who were hurt or lost that came to talk to him was real, though he remained unattached from any real friendship or closeness, save what was developing between him and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to missneutrino for beta reading!


	9. Bull Terrier

###### 19 Oct 1996

“Victor.”  


“Hello, dear.”  


“Settling in?”  


“Gorgeous. Thank you, again-”  


“No need. Couldn’t let a bright young thing like yourself go to waste. Social and political science, philosophy, and economics, was it?”  


“Essentially. Through a historical-linguistic framework.”  


“How interesting, I’m sure. And how is the little terror?”  


“Lacking your expert grace, but potentially delightful. Smoking like a chimney, even more than me. But Mycroft, you never told me your little brother was such a delicious little thing.”  


“You are clearly too intelligent to play at trying to make me jealous, so I must conclude that you have either gone quite mad or that you are serious. Be it on your own head.”  


“Don’t worry, dear. I know my place, I won’t be corrupting my innocent young charge. Anyway, I’d feel like a dirty old man. And that’s your job, isn’t it?”  


“I don’t think anyone could ever have called you an innocent, my dear.”  


“You can call me anything you’d like, if you ask nicely enough,” Victor purred.  


“And the... dog, was it?”  


“Ah, yes, don’t worry about that, he’s healing wonderfully.”  


“But the animal itself?”  


“Taken care of. Won’t be snapping at any more heels,” Victor said, his voice light through the receiver.  


“Quite.” Only the smallest shade of suspicion colored Mycroft’s reply, “Well, make sure he doesn’t go getting himself into any further trouble. Remember what we discussed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you missneutrino!


	10. Coffee

###### 22 Oct 1996

Sherlock woke up in Victor’s bed. He’d been staying there since he’d been discharged from the infirmary. Private housing. No mystery about who secured him that, of course. Sherlock was awake first, like every morning. Fell asleep first and woke up first. Victor was sprawled on the couch, the ashtray, as always, within reach of his fingers.  


As always, within reach of Sherlock’s fingers, was his bow. He had clasped it before his feet touched the cold floor, and in a moment was at the window, flipping open the clasps on the violin case with his free hand. As soon as he started playing, the bruise that the chinrest pressed against would stop hurting, the wind going through his thin white shirt would cease to chill, and the movements that swayed his body like a reed and twisted his ribs would become natural and easy, not agonizing and breathless. Victor slept through anything. He could play as loud as he wanted as early as he wanted and never hear a complaint. Though if Victor was awake, he’d tell him it wasn’t six weeks yet, sit down in a chair so he won’t bust up his healing ribs. Sure enough, four measures into Mendelssohn’s Op. 38 No. 6 he felt a chair press against the backs of his knees and hands on his shoulders pressing him down into it.  


He kept playing while Victor made the coffee. In his efforts to keep his promise to Victor and stay clean, Sherlock was refusing any pain medication other than paracetamol. Instead, he medicated through chain smoking and Victor’s extra-strong coffee. Victor made it in a Turkish pot and sweetened it with no milk. Sherlock previously had just taken it black, but the sugar dulled the bitterness, and a sugar rush was better than no rush at all.  


“Come have your breakfast and put this on so you won’t freeze to death,” Victor said, tossing a robe towards Sherlock. Sherlock caught it without turning. He put his violin back in it case and wrapped himself in the flannel.

  


They had finished breakfast and were leaning in the doorway that led into the courtyard. Sherlock had refused to put more than the robe and some slippers on. He wasn’t able to go to class yet _and if he wasn’t_ going _anywhere, why should he bother getting dressed?_ he argued. The clock was just striking eight. A boy, Victor’s age, but not a student, was the only one in the courtyard other than them. He stopped short when he saw Victor. Ah. The nurse’s boyfriend. He snarled as he walked past them.  


“Fuckin poofters,” he muttered. Sherlock’s eyes grew dark and red, and he pushed himself away from the doorframe and started after the older boy, but Victor caught his arm and pulled him back sharply. So sharply that Sherlock sucked in his breath at the pain that shot through his side. He was inches from Victor’s face, which still smiled easily and composedly.  


“No, dear. We don’t take their bait. You must remember that.” He released Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock leaned himself slowly back against the doorway and nodded at Victor. The other boy looked back at them and laughed. Sherlock dragged on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke with a smile in the boy’s direction. That made the boy scowl and walk on. Victor winked at Sherlock in approval.  


“We do not show weakness in front of the enemy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who's awesome? missneutrino's awesome!


	11. Genius

###### 25 Oct 1996

“My mother just wrote to me asking how the dog bites were healing.” 

“With remarkably little scarring.” 

“You still don’t have a dog.” 

“I told Mycroft it was destroyed after it attacked you.” 

“I broke my ribs.” 

“I told him you fell down the stairs trying to fight it off.” 

“There’s no way he believed that.” 

“Right, but he trusts my judgment, so if that’s the story I’m sticking to, he knows I must have good reason. Anyway, he may be rich as Croesus and one day he’ll be more powerful than God, but right now he’s stuck in a musty office with gloomy old men, and he has to take me at my word. That’s why I’m here anyway, since he couldn’t do it himself.”

“I’m suffocating in here. Let’s go out tonight, Victor."

“Where?”

Sherlock grinned, “Sebastian’s throwing a party. Let’s make it my homecoming.”

  


It was the first time in a month that Sherlock was back into his own rooms. Sebastian, Freddie, and even Helena had decidedly marked their territory in the common area. One look at the razor marks on the glass centre table showed that Sherlock was not the only one with a penchant for illegal narcotics. Sherlock had walked in first with Victor a step behind. As they stood in the doorway, the party quieted and Sebastian laughed.  


“So the freak’s returned, has he? We all thought you’d been sent home to Mummy.” Sherlock flashed a fast, false smile at him and walked over to the sideboard. He was pouring himself and Victor stiff cups of scotch (in ridiculous red plastic cups), when Freddie walked over and twisted the bottle out of his hand.  


“I don’t think you’re quite old enough to drink that.”  


“Careful, Freddie,” Helena purred, “He might go crying to his big brother.”  


“We wouldn’t want that now, would we? Would you like me to get you some milk?” Freddie said. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. The whole party was staring at him. Staring at the flush on his cheeks and his neck, no doubt. The heat prickled. His eyes grew hot too. He could cry in front of half the undergraduates in his college, or he could break the bottle in Freddie’s hand over Freddie’s own skull. Shame to waste such good scotch, but considerably less shameful than breaking down. He shot his hand out and grabbed Freddie’s wrist.  


Then he heard a cough. Victor. Just barely inside the room. He didn’t have to turn to look to know that he was still smiling. He heard Victor walk over to them. Victor twisted the bottle lightly out of their hands.  


“I’m afraid _I_ don’t like milk, Smythe. Much prefer this,” he said, addressing Freddie. Sherlock took a slow breath and let a smile bloom on his face. Victor poured three cups, one for Freddie, one for himself, one for Sherlock.  


Freddie forced himself to smile. He was uneasily aware of the doe-eyed way Helena was looking at Victor, and even more uneasy about the way he for some reason was instantly nervous that Victor wouldn’t like him.  


“Trevor,” he said easily, “Make sure the child doesn’t get us written up, will you?”  


“Oh, of course. We wouldn’t want any trouble, would we,” Victor answered. Freddie’s lip twitched, and he shook his gaze away from Victor’s smile. Lifting the red plastic cup (his father worked at the Embassy in New York, it was a collegiate pretension he brought back from the States), he tapped drinks with Victor and then, reluctantly, with Sherlock. Sherlock tried to imitate Victor’s placid smile. When the party regained its former drone, he felt Victor’s hand briefly rest upon the small of his back. Victor winked at him as he sipped his drink.  


“Well, welcome home, darling,” he whispered, before turning his attention to the girl who had seated herself in between Victor and the edge of the sofa.  


“Why did Sebastian call your friend a freak?” she asked Victor. Victor laughed, as if she had asked him the stupidest question in the world.  


“Why? Because he’s a genius, of course.”  


“A genius! So you think you’re cleverer than me?” she said teasingly, addressing Sherlock. This time his smile did not have to be forced.


	12. Balance

###### 30 Oct 1996

Winter was coming, and all of a sudden every party on campus sought the warmth of Sherlock Holmes and Victor Trevor. Even the upperclassmen needed them to adorn their rooms. It was not entirely expected that Sherlock would be as welcomed into campus society as Victor, but it soon proved to be the case. He was never effortlessly likeable. He did not smile easily. He did not know when to laugh. He froze when people touched him, and light chat would, more often than not, end with him insulting the other person. Having Victor as his constant associate did soften many of the blows- people thought that if such a lighthearted, pleasant chap like Victor enjoyed his company, then his acid tongue and prying mind must have been fashionable and interesting. An attitude such as Sherlock’s does well to make one either an outcast or a source of attraction; in his life, he experienced both alternatives, and now, his haughty and cold demeanor made him seem mysterious, dangerous. 

He himself couldn’t have given less of a shit whether those around him liked him or not, except for the fact that being in social situations provided him with data, an influx of new information and mental stimulants. And so, they became fixtures of university society. The bright young prodigy and his charming chaperone. Victor was perfectly endearing and easy, and Sherlock was perfectly unpredictable. Safety and danger. Sherlock was untouchable, though Victor was considerably less so.


	13. The Mercy of Perseus Breaking His Mirror

###### 20 Nov 1996

Mycroft Holmes, holding an envelope and a black leather briefcase, stepped noiselessly into Victor’s room and closed the door behind him. His slicked black hair shone like patent leather. A moment later Victor came out of the bedroom, and after only a small start, smiled and greeted the man. 

“Mycroft. How are you, dear? Please, sit down, I’ll put the kettle on.” 

“There’s no need for that, _Mr._ Trevor. I’m only here for a moment; hopefully your explanation will not be long,” Mycroft said, holding out the envelope without stepping further into the room. Victor walked over and took it. He withdrew a photograph, developed from a disposable camera with a too-bright flash. The picture was from a party only the night before. Someone had asked Sherlock if Victor was his boyfriend, or his babysitter. Sherlock had been slightly drunk, enough to preen when shock was directed at him. The person whose flat they were in owned a black Labrador. Sherlock grabbed the leash that hung by the door and twisted it around his own neck, growling that Victor was neither of those things; Victor was his dogwalker. He knew they thought he was a freakshow, and was loving how they jumped when he threw it back in their faces. Victor had remained at his side, he wouldn’t let them see him in anything other than support of Sherlock. They had to see that he wasn’t alone. But when all eyes were on Sherlock, Victor gave him a look that was asking him please. Please stop. 

The photograph didn’t capture that look at all. It only showed a confident, handsome young man with something like a smirk on his face, with his arm around a boy with a leash around his neck and a demented grin on his flushed face. 

“My brother will never be normal. He will never be ordinary. The duty entrusted to you is to make sure he is not a pariah. Are you still up to this task?” 

“Mr. Holmes, yes. Look, this was just a night out with friends that got rather silly, this picture makes it look worse than it was...” 

“Mr. Trevor!” Mycroft interrupted him. That he could yell with such a quiet voice made his presence even more terrifying, “Your charm is wearing thin. Do you expect me to believe that this was a night out with ‘friends’ and not my brother making an exhibition of himself in a completely hostile environment? To them, he will always be a freak, a danger, the other. They will make him their dog, their jester, their dirt, the minute they are allowed to see his weaknesses. If you cannot understand this, perhaps you are not as intelligent as I once gave you credit for and would flourish more successfully in a less challenging environment than the one I have put you in here. _I_ will not feel pain at putting you back where I found you, although your father may feel differently about the matter.” 

“Mycroft. Leave him alone, you bastard.” 

Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe of Victor’s bedroom. He had on one of Victor’s old and abandoned shirts. He was taller than when Mycroft had seen him last and their eyes were now level with each other. Mycroft returned his glare. Victor’s smile had been wiped from his face, which was pale and worried. Mycroft broke the silence. 

“Mr. Trevor, remember why you are here. I do not give second chances lightly, and considering your blatant lies concerning how Sherlock got himself injured earlier in the term, I would say my forgiveness may already be more than you merit. Brother, take care your idiocy does not embarrass your family further. Good day to you both.” Neither of them spoke for a full minute after the older man had left. Victor’s face looked much more tired and much older without the smile. 

“Sherlock, I think your brother didn’t mean...” 

“He can go to hell. If he wants to see me again, I hope he kept that photo, cos I’ll be damned if he sees this freak anytime soon.” Victor raised his eyes to heaven and sighed. 

“The Holmes brothers... you’ll both be the death of me, won’t you? Well, if I’m going to keep cleaning up your messes, you at least have to make the bed, you little demon.” Victor boiled the kettle as Sherlock retreated back to the bedroom. When the water had boiled and the tea had steeped, Victor brought the cups in. Sherlock had curled up on the thoroughly unmade bed and had buried his face in the pillows. He shifted as Victor sat down next to him, so that his nose was shoved in between the mattress and Victor’s thigh. Victor drank his tea as he sat stroking the black, tangled curls. There was nothing to say, and neither spoke.  


  


The early afternoon light was fading. Sherlock rolled onto his back and pulled the covers haphazardly over himself, rubbing at his red eyes. Victor smoothed the cover straight and made sure it was covering the boy’s shoulders. Before he went to start dinner, before he left the room, before he turned the light off, before he stood up from the bed, he let his fingers trace the outline of Sherlock’s face, and after that, he kissed him; quietly and calmly. 

_“Refuse to turn to stone, Medusa: get up and make your bed.”_


	14. Dancing

###### Nov 1996

In the first few weeks of their acquaintance, Victor had been a little surprised at the things Sherlock did and didn’t know. The boy gave him disinterested shrugs in reply when he talked about films, and though he knew the tiniest details about many sensational stories in the news, others had entirely escaped his notice. They could talk about music endlessly- Victor and Sherlock were both classically trained in piano and violin, respectively, and were well-versed in the canons of both those instruments. In addition, Sherlock had a stunning wealth of knowledge about almost all other forms of music, up to and including contemporary pop music. But just as stunning was his dearth of knowledge. Stone Roses, he knew. Tupac, he knew (although he thought it was pronounced ‘Two-Pack’). He’d never heard of Oasis, though (to Helena’s malicious delight), or the Rolling Stones. When Victor asked why, Sherlock said it was because he was interested in innovators, but if they weren’t that, they bored him. When faced with an argument in favor of the Rolling Stones, Sherlock countered by saying that they _must_ not be innovators, since he didn’t know them. 

He’d had two Walkmans, and an extensive collection of tapes and CDs, but sold them all a year and a half ago. Victor didn’t have to ask what he’d sold them for. Victor put aside a few pounds whenever Mycroft sent his cheque, and they’d go to the record store once in a while and spend it on music. Victor was saving up and eventually would buy him a really good pair of headphones. Sherlock even got asked to DJ a party once- but just once. Problem was he really didn’t care about what anyone else liked, so that night what _he_ liked happened to be the Fluxus movement, atonal dissonance, and Tibetan throat singing.  


  


Sherlock was not the ideal study partner, but since he already spoke Japanese and Victor was learning it, he could help him a little, though he was not the most patient teacher (nor student). Immersion worked the best for both of them, so Victor, in return, quizzed Sherlock on his biology and his maths (not as strong as his chemistry), while attempting to do so in Japanese. In addition to their courses, Victor got Sherlock to start boxing, and Victor started going to fencing with Sherlock. Sherlock had let a light peachfuzz mustache grow, so Victor teased him and called him Errol Flynn, though Sherlock didn’t know who that was, and since they didn’t have a telly, he never got around to finding out. 

Sherlock was a lightweight and Victor was a middleweight, so they didn’t get placed together in boxing, though they always went to sparring practice together. Sebastian also boxed, and was in the same weight class as Victor. Sherlock decided _that_ was the reason that he found himself lingering before he hit the showers, watching the two of them. It was because he knew Sebastian would take any opportunity to embarrass Sherlock, and that if he could do that by hurting Victor, he would. Sherlock dawdled while removing his gloves, while unwrapping his hands. Sometimes he’d lean on the outside of the ropes and watch them. Sebastian and Sherlock would verbally go at each other, Sherlock practicing his easy grin while parrying Sebastian’s ill-aimed barbs. Victor listened to them in amusement, while easily blocking Sebastian’s attempts to surprise him with unannounced punches. Victor did move like a dancer. Sherlock studied him. Studied his technique, the way he moved, the amount of time it took for him to break out in a sweat. Sometimes he’d have a lovebite on his abdomen, sometimes a bruise on his bicep or on his rib, sometimes red scratches down his back. Sherlock stared at them, figuring out who’d done each. How many nights ago they’d occurred. What angle they were made from. Their trainer would often come over to Victor and point these out, making some crude joke, to which Victor would grin and shrug, and Sherlock would find himself growing annoyed and wishing the trainer would shut up. He could usually tell who had made the marks. They were never from him.


	15. Fall

###### 29 Nov 1996

Victor was looking for Sherlock. Victor had slipped out while he was in the middle of tearing down their host in particular detail. He thought he’d still be at it, but when he came out, the host was already recovering by chatting up a girl who’d just come in. His casual enquiries as to Sherlock’s whereabouts produced nothing, till the quietly hulking captain of the polo team blushed when he asked him, and his eyes directed Victor to the window. There was an iron ladder within reach of the sill. Victor climbed it to the roof. When he swung himself over, he saw Sherlock and two other students. The others had hurriedly rolled down their sleeves and tried to make it look like they were just stargazing through their cigarette smoke, but Sherlock didn’t even stop what he was doing, he just looked up at Victor, smiled with the tie between his teeth, and continued easing the needle into his vein. 

“Took you long enough to find us. I seem to have overrated your observational abilities. That party was positively stifling.” 

“Sherlock...” 

“I got bored. Don’t distract me.” 

“It’s my job to distract you. If you’re bored, come find something to do with me...” 

“I got the impression you were rather _busy_. Helena, was it? I’m sure that’ll make living with my flatmates so much more bearable than it already is,” Sherlock glared up at Victor, the gargoyle once more. 

“Sherlock... you know it’s not like that, it’s just something to do...” 

“Yes, and what do you think this is?” Sherlock sneered up at Victor, talking through his teeth. Then he exhaled and let the tie fall from his teeth. Victor saw the drug hit him. Victor could have slapped him at the way he smiled. 

_“It’s something to do.”_

Victor let out a short laugh, determined to remain composed. 

“How artfully you give me my words back, Sherlock. Look, I’m not going to stay here while you go on the nod. Put this watch on, I’m sending a cab for you in three hours. Don’t lose it. Don’t sell it. Be downstairs in three hours.” 

Three hours and ten minutes later Sherlock let himself into Victor’s rooms, by way of the window. Hands would have shook too much for the lock. Victor was asleep. His whole room smelt of tobacco, the lingering smoke made your eyes tear. In the morning, Victor awoke to Sherlock’s arms clenched around him, shivering, sweating, filthy. They eyed each other warily, though Victor’s gaze was steady and Sherlock’s blinked away and darted around the room. 

“You’re not going to your noon class. Your 4:00 pm you will go to, though. Sit in the back where they won’t notice you too much.” 

“Don’t tell Mycroft.” 

“Please tell me your reasoning for thinking I would let this slide.” 

Sherlock's face softened, and he skimmed his fingertips lightly up Victor's arm, slid them along the line of his collarbone. 

"Because you wouldn't like it if they took me away..." he said. 

Victor grabbed Sherlock's wrist, shoved it away forcefully and pushed himself out of the bed. 

"Don't. You're better than that." The softness immediately dropped from Sherlock's features, and they snapped back into their habitual dark glare. 

"What, had enough with Helena last night, did you? Didn't think you could tire out so quickly. Mustn't run yourself ragged now, dear, you won't be able to get people to give you your way so easily." 

"Being spiteful's not going to stop me from calling your brother." 

“Victor, you know there is a difference between addictive, compulsive behavior and autonomous choice. I never mix it with other depressants, I don’t drink while I’m using, I don’t take pills. I am a chemist, I understand what I’m doing. I’ve even cut it myself back in London, I know what to look for to be safe.” 

“Sherlock, I understand that you know what you’re doing, but you also know how easy it is to get strung out. You’re still a child, your brain development could be seriously affected. You have more strength of will than most adults but that doesn’t mean that the strongest of them all can’t get hooked just like anyone else. You’re not a _chemist_ , you’re a chemistry _student_ , if you’re even that at all, god knows how you tie your studies together,” Victor said as he changed. 

“University is supposed to be place where your mind is stimulated to its capacity and its limits and boundaries are tested- classes and professors here do not do that for me, but this does. Can’t you understand that? It’s not like _you_ want to be here any more than I do.” 

Victor laughed, “No, Sherlock, it’s you who can’t understand. I completely want to be here and I have much to lose if I have to leave. We are not all prodigies who can’t manage to glean one little bit of substance from the best school in the country.” He finished knotting his tie and picked his books up, “Sherlock, can I please have my watch back?” Sherlock curled even further in on himself, so that his face was fully hidden from Victor. 

“Sherlock?” 

“I sold it.” Victor shut his eyes and only opened them when he knew they would not see Sherlock. 

“I am a true idiot,” was the last thing Sherlock heard him say before Victor walked out the door. Twenty minutes later Victor’s phone rang. Sherlock rolled over and picked it up. 

“Hello Mycroft. Had a nice chat with my nanny?” 

“Quite. Sherlock, I don’t want to be your enemy.” 

“Then stop acting like a villain from a cheap thriller.” 

“If you stop acting like femme fatale from the same story.” 

“Get on with it, if you’ve called to yell at me, go to it. I haven’t got all day, I have some very important ignoring you to get back to.” 

“That is not why I called. Your father wants to take care of that on his own.” At this Sherlock said nothing. 

“That was the original terms of our agreement, little brother. You go to university and stay clean, or you go to Father’s. Sherlock, I don’t want to send you there, but he wrote and said that your current monitor was not sufficient and that he would rather supervise you himself.” 

“It’s not Victor’s fault.” 

“Are you sure that’s not just your affection for him talking?” 

“He’s like a bloody old hen, won’t leave me alone for a minute. He’s worse than you.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

“Don’t send me there. I’ll disappear if he tries to come get me.” 

“And break your mother’s heart.” 

“Don’t send me to him.” 

“And where should I send you instead?” 

“Just let me stay here.” 

Mycroft paused. 

“Sherlock, I will ensure that you are allowed to remain where you are for the time being. In return you must promise me that I will not have made a foolish decision. You have four years to suffer through, at the end of which you will be presented with every imaginable opportunity. You will be able to walk into whatever field you desire. Of course you’re cleverer than everyone there, but you must make the effort to remain that way. Learn from the idiots. How do you think I got through it?” 

“Your feminine wiles.” 

“Even your insults are suffering. Do you want to speak to Mummy?” 

“You’re with Mother?” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock hesitated, and his brow furrowed. “No, she’d know what I’d been up to in a moment.” 

“You think she needs a phone to know _that_?” 

“Don’t tell her, you ass. Not for my sake- that’s cruel for her.” 

“I think you underestimate her perception. I shall keep silent for one last time, however, if, for the next month, you stop giving me things to keep silent about.” 

“You’re an absolute viper.” 

“Resorting to cliché. Get some sleep, young idiot, and when you wake up try to make sure you use your brain enough so that it doesn’t leak out your ears.” 

“Mycroft.” 

“Yes?” 

“Thank you.” 

When Sherlock went to his class at 4:00 pm, there was room in the row next to Victor, but he sat in the back instead. Victor didn’t even turn around at sound of the door to see who it was. Sherlock was used to looking at the backs of people’s heads. His mother’s was all curls and pins; his father’s was red neck and pomade; Victor’s was neat hair closely cropped at the nape but until a few months ago it had grown long- the back of his neck was a shade paler than his face, and every once in awhile Victor moved his hand as if to tuck something behind his ear. The chattering noise in Sherlock’s head, of his skin cells tingling and his brain cells screaming, blocked out anything more he might have gathered about the back of Victor’s head.


	16. Fly

###### August 2010

He knew just how it would hit. he could see the pathway in his mind- at the level of his tissue, and then down to the cellular and molecular cascades that led to altered perception and feeling. He knew so precisely the location and intensity of the feeling that it was difficult to tell where the anticipation left off and the sensation began. John was knocking on Sherlock’s door and asking if he was alright. It had been five days since John had seen him leave his room. Sherlock didn’t answer. Knew John would enter anyway, and let in all that damned light. 

“Sherlock did you hear me? It’s been a week, mate, have you even eaten anything at all?” 

The sheets from Sherlock’s bed were flung in an agonized sprawl across the mattress and were overflowing over the side. At the end of their reach, on the floor next to the nightstand, lay Sherlock. There was an old cigar box next to him, spilling over with papers and letters from old cases. He was staring at a battered, yellowed envelope, torn open and apart, covered in stamps. He muttered something too quiet for John to hear, so quietly that John almost thought he heard “ _Medusa_.” 

“Sherlock, what have you been doing in here in the dark? Are you sick?” 

“John, I’ve never told you about old Lord Trevor and his son, have I...” 

“No. Who? Sherlock, are you alright?” 

“Tell me what you think of this letter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to missneutrino for beta'ing this!


	17. Blue Veins

###### July 2000

He knew it had been three weeks. Beyond that, any linearity that could have connected the time that had passed into days and nights, hours and minutes, was shattered. Sherlock liked it that way. For the moment. He knew it had been three weeks since he had been in his own flat. He knew the number of stairs that had led down from the latest party he’d been at (fifty-nine). He knew how many steps led up to the landing he was on now (seventy-two). He knew that the building he was in was directly to the east of the building that party had been in. He didn’t quite know why he had relocated to shoot up, but perhaps he had wanted to be alone. Perhaps he hadn’t paid. Perhaps someone wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Either option: highly uncomfortable. Boring. Distracting, but not in the way he wanted. He was surrounded by three days’ worth of cigarette stubs. Most his own, but not all. Had he left to buy more? If so, did that mean he had money? No- he’d been prepared when he left the house. Provisions. Good. He lifted the box lid. There was a lighter inside. Such a genius. Didn’t lose the lighter. No- such an idiot: didn’t notice there were no cigarettes left in the box. Must have outlasted the provisions. Will get up soon. Have to. But not yet. 

Gong. No. Footsteps on metal. Fire escape, two stories down. Haven’t stood up. Wrinkles in clothes the same; pattern of stubs on ground undisturbed. Face wet. Crying? No. Sweating. Shirt sticking to back. Breathing? Yes. Not too shallow. Fine. Find cigarette carton without moving upper arms. Try to only use fingers. Don’t even move eyes. Bring carton to sight level. Someone’s stuffed cigarettes around the lighter. Interesting. Remove one. Remove lighter. Decide: move cigarette to mouth (utilizing arm muscles and minimal abdominal contraction) or mouth to cigarette (neck, back abdominal, arm, thigh...) - option one. Relax neck. That’s better. Chest supports chin. Cigarette cherry too close to left forearm. Oh well. Won’t feel it. Sleeve rolled up: minimal fire hazard, will self-extinguish on damp skin. 

Falling. Flying? Falling. Falling. Too fast. Cold sweat. Vomit rising. Roll over so choking risk minimized. Bed. White bed. Large. Clean (except for vomit). Sheets self-laundered, not sent out (commercial soap, not high end, better than house brands). Wood, dust, nicotine. Old flat, intermittently lived in. Smokers. Male. Not Mycroft. Obvious. Oh. Lights dimming: shades being drawn.  


  


He woke up and walked shakily to the washroom. When he opened the door it knocked something over onto the tiles: jar of coins. Rudimentary alarm system. Cold underfoot. He saw he was in his pants. The rest of his clothes were on hangers on the shower bar. Inside pocket of his jacket unfortunately (unsurprisingly) bereft of the plastic bags it had held last night. Clothes dry now, but had been washed out by hand. Vomit stench was still in his hair, though- wafted out whenever he turned his head. Not that he wanted to turn his head. Question in two parts: was a shower possible, and was a shower without lights possible? Legs: unsteady, blood flow returning. System: severely dehydrated. However, owner of bed is aware of existence and waking state: protective precautions neutralize risk of drowning/dying from a fall. 

Shower: marvelous. Hot water. Blades removed from razors, however: obvious attempt to avoid suicide risk. Childish. Idiotic (as if that would have been the only mode). Does provide obstacle to shaving head. Shame. Washing hair such an annoyance. 

Step out of shower. Drip on the fucking coins. Didn’t close the door. Man in bedroom, putting new sheets on bed. Earlier assumption confirmed. 

“I’m glad you’ve given up waiting by my bedside like a distraught housewife.” 

“Delighted to see you too, Sherlock. I want to put something on that burn on your arm.” Sherlock ignored the towel Victor held out and rolled himself into the fresh linen Victor had just finished tucking into the mattress. 

“No, dear, you’ve got to drink this before you go back to sleep. And give me your arm.” Sherlock moaned and flung his arm out of the white cocoon. 

“My arm, my heart, my life. All yours.” 

Victor smiled. 

“I’ll treat the one with the burns, first, shall I? That, at least, we can have some control over.” 

“What’s a dogwalker to do with a rabid dog?” 

“Not rabid, just unfortunate in his choice of metaphor.” 

“Unfortunate.... Victor, if you won’t love me, who will?” 

“Whatever gave you the impression that I wouldn’t?” 

“Come in with me.” 

“Can’t skip any more work, little devil. I’ll be back tonight after Lansdowne’s, Father’s coming into town and I promised him I’d help him put in an appearance.” 

Sherlock jerked his carefully bandaged arm away and rolled so his back faced Victor. Later that night, at Lansdowne’s, a gaunt but sparkling Sherlock flashed a smile at Victor from across the hall. He was wearing Victor’s suit- really? After all the money Mycroft spent buying him his own, he had to go pinch one of Victor’s few dress suits?- but before by the time Victor had settled his father into a chair and some conversation, he was told that “that funny young school-mate of yours- Holmes’ brother, isn’t that right?” had already gone. When Victor arrived back home, the bed was unmade and the ashtray full. At least he had bothered to clean up the coins, which were undoubtedly due for a short stay in the pockets of Victor’s suit.


	18. Holiday

###### 6 Dec 1996

Sherlock’s fingers tightened around the lapels of Victor’s jacket, whose shoulders were a little too broad for Sherlock’s frame. He pulled it tighter around himself and shivered. His own jacket had grown too short in the arms, but he hadn’t thought to ask his brother to send new clothes. 

“I can’t go home.” Victor turned from the typewriter. His smile, in the week following Sherlock selling his watch, had been uncharacteristically forced, and right now he did not even bother to wear it. 

“Why? Aren’t you dying to get away from here? Get away from me?” Sherlock’s toes wriggled under the edge of Victor’s wool blanket. He didn’t answer for a moment, but Victor knew better than to think he wouldn’t answer eventually. 

“Mycroft called.... Mother’s out of the country so we have to do Christmas at Father’s.” 

“When did he call?” 

“Last week.” 

“The school’s given you a warning; they won’t let you stay here during the holiday.” 

“I know.” Sherlock said nothing after this. Instead of replying, Victor continued typing. His fingers didn’t pause till he reached the end of the page. 

While he was loading the next one, he spoke, more to the typewriter than to the boy in the middle of his bed, “Even if I wanted to, Sherlock, do you think I could show up at my father’s with an underage drug addict? Me- you can do anything to me, put me through any sort of hell, but him, that’s different. I’m doing this for his sake, remember. I won’t be dragging him into your trouble along with me.” In a second, Sherlock was on his feet, had cast off Victor’s jacket, and was slamming the door. 

An hour and ten pages later he walked back in. Fingers were red from the cold. He was carrying two paper cups of black coffee. 

“What about an underage drug addict in recovery?” The bell chimed to tell Victor he’d reached the end of the line, and he slammed his palm into the reader to send it back to the start. 

“You’re a liar, Sherlock. You’re a liar, and I’m an idiot, and there’s nothing I can do to help you. I wish I could, god help me. But I’m not letting you treat my father the way you treat me.” 

“I’m sorry.”


	19. Trying

###### 12 Dec 1996

It took many cups of coffee and two days of convincing for Victor to believe that Sherlock meant it, and to agree to reconsider his decision based on the rest of the semester. To help prove his sincerity, Sherlock began going to sparring practice again, and skipped all of the dinners and raves that the fourth years had invited them to in order to finish writing the thesis paper for his independent study. The work he put in the week and a half before term ended ensured that he would pass with above-average grades in all his classes but one, even if they were pitiful compared to what he was really capable of. He and Victor stayed in every night, and Victor stayed up through the night sweats and cooked things he could keep down. It wasn’t easy. But easy wasn’t quite Sherlock’s M.O., was it? 

Five days before the official end of term Victor came back from a walk to the corner shop. He’d picked up packets of instant coffee (just enough to keep them stocked through the week), bread, cold cuts, and crisps, and spent the rest of his cash on cigarettes. He was an excellent cook, but with the stress of exams and Sherlock, crisp sarnies were about all either of them could stomach or appreciate. It was 8:00 am and he was going to let Sherlock sleep in since it had only been the last two nights that he’d been able to fall asleep at all, but Victor found he was already up, smoothing the top sheet crisp as origami and folding the woolen blanket across the foot of the bed. He stopped when Victor walked in and his blue eyes widened. He almost looked as if he’d been caught doing something wrong, and it made Victor laugh. 

“Good morning, Buttercup. See? I knew you could do it if you stopped being such a lazy bugger,” he said, tossing Sherlock a crisp bag, “Don’t get crumbs on your beautiful work; eat over the desk.” 

They ate their salt-and-vinegar breakfasts over textbooks and typewriters. Victor somehow managed to take down notes and let out the hems on Sherlock’s trousers at the same time. He kept one eye on Sherlock, who was perched precariously atop the wooden stool at Victor’s desk, fidgeting and typing and sighing. 

Victor hummed to himself when he got up to stretch his legs, flipping the water on and opening a packet of coffee. 

“Do you think Mycroft will have me assassinated for stealing you away with me at Christmas?” 

Sherlock’s head snapped up. Corners of his mouth twitching. 

“Really?” Victor nodded, and a smile burst over Sherlock’s gaunt face. 

“So what do you say? Think your family will ever forgive me for keeping you away?” 

“I think they’ll manage to cope with the loss.” The breath caught in Sherlock’s throat. He had to force himself to stop thinking about how Victor’s lips would taste like crisps. Victor filled mugs for Sherlock and himself, and gestured to the typewriter. 

“Back to work.”


	20. The First Case

###### August 2010

That morning John woke up expecting, as it had it had been for the last few weeks, to come down to empty rooms and Sherlock’s closed door. He would, as usual, make him tea and try to convince him to let him in. He had started to think it was a lost cause. He’d thought he’d seen it all. He’d thought they were close. But it didn’t seem like Sherlock would ever come out. Come back. 

Except there was last night’s aberration. The letter was short, reading, “ _Houston, the problem: Is Jesus not coming? We pretend he serves our wants, but can what all of you poor sinners owe be forgiven? Or can yet he save? The Will of God reveal?_ ” John hadn’t understood it. Maybe a religious nutter? Whoever that Lord Trevor and his son had been, they must have been an interesting lot to have made Sherlock talk about them like that. Their memory had produced more activity in him than John had observed that whole month. To be fair, after the initial question of whether or not he had ever told John about them, that activity mainly consisted of bounding to his feet and shutting the door in John’s face, but still, it was something. 

This still did not prepare John for the sight that greeted him this bright and early morning- that of Sherlock sitting, fully dressed and groomed, at the table with the morning’s paper and a full fry-up. Even more surprising was the open door to Sherlock’s room, which was spotless for once, with the bed made as immaculately as if John had made it himself. Well, nearly. He’d still have had Sherlock written up for those hospital corners if he’d been in John’s regiment. As John had stood in the doorway in mild shock, Sherlock had been heaping potatoes and sausages onto John’s plate. 

“Lord Trevor,” he began, as he poured John’s coffee and tried to keep his hands from shaking, “was the head of the last remaining factions of one of the oldest families in Britain. His son was my friend at school.” Sherlock noted the way John’s eyebrows questioned that statement momentarily. Jealousy? Most likely disbelief. Inconsequential. 

“We met when I was set upon by his dog. Overweight, territorial beast... always hated the thing. Eternally my enemy. Victor, however.” Sherlock paused and pulled out his cigarettes, taking one between his fingers but not lighting it, just fidgeting with it until it crumbled onto the carpet, “Yes, well he was different than the other idiots there. Slightly more interesting. For a while. He was clever. Very clever.” 

John sipped his coffee. It was stronger than what they usually made. Thicker. Like the coffee he’d get sometimes during the war. 

“Victor- like you, then.” 

“No. Not like me at all.”


	21. Grit on the Lens

###### 20 Dec 1996

“It’s not a gift. How can it be? I’m just giving you back something that was yours anyway.” 

“But you worked to get it back to me because you knew it meant something to me.” 

“I’m just tired of you showing up late to things.” 

Victor rolled his eyes and grinned as he buckled his father’s watch back around his wrist. They were waiting for the cab to bring them to the station. 

“Well, thank you anyway. I don’t want to know what you did to get it back. But thank you.”

  


It was always easy to remind himself of impossibilities. Of probabilities. Made it easier to clear his mind. Task at hand. There were more important things to think about, more interesting things to do. 

Sherlock needed all his faculties intact, didn’t he, no impediments to brain or body, wasn’t that right? 

He told himself it was easy to forget. Easy to ignore. Better things to do. Didn’t like not being able to think straight. 

Just sometimes Victor’s smile knew a little too much. Sometimes he looked at him just a little too long. Just sometimes it was just a little hard to breathe. 

So he pushed it down and buried it deep as he could. Exiled it from his mind. Except sometimes there was nothing quite so interesting as Victor.


	22. Shaping Athena

###### August-October 2010

Slowly, the smell of tobacco started to dissipate from the flat at 221B, replaced by the scents of ammonia, agar, and formaldehyde. Nicotine patch wrappers littered the floor instead of crushed cigarettes. There was no silent, dark-eyed girl with money-filled shoes. Sherlock was barely in his room anymore, instead appearing suddenly with boxing gloves or new violin strings, covered in oil paint and twice in golden syrup, dragging John to the newest West End productions, and attempting to prank call Mycroft. When John looked into Sherlock’s room, the bed would be crisp and free from chaos and debris. And every morning, over breakfast, he would hear a little more of the story of Lord and Victor Trevor.

  


“I was almost sixteen and recovering from meningitis. Obviously Mycroft didn’t want my nasty little germs anywhere near him so I took Victor up on the offer of going with him to his father’s house in Norfolk for the long holiday.” 

“Why didn’t you go to your mother’s?” 

“And pass up the opportunity to increase my observation of human behavior? What else is being almost sixteen good for?” 

“This Victor. Did he have meningitis too?” John asked, wondering just how stupid Sherlock thought he was, and whether Victor had been involved in or opposed to young Sherlock’s drug habits. 

“No, but he was considerably less squeamish than my brother about catching anything,” Sherlock sniffed, helping himself to John’s toast, “The Trevor family home was fairly equivalent to anyone else’s home in our form, except it had clearly fallen into disrepair. Victor’s father, Lord Trevor, lived there year round except for occasional absences in the summer when he’d go live in town. The only other year-round inhabitant was a live-in cook. Only one wing of the house was still in full use. A cleaning woman came a few times a week, and Victor’s room was kept spotless for his eagerly anticipated returns home. Clearly the apple of his father’s eye. There had been a sister but she’d died ages ago. Trevor the Younger had evidently gotten his taste for boxing from Trevor the Elder, who was old by then but retained the evidence of the formidable figure of his youth.” 

“Bit of a bruiser, was he?” 

“With his son you couldn’t tell so easily. Well, ordinary people couldn’t. He didn’t look it, but he taught me a thing or two about fighting.” 

“Taught you something? You’re saying you didn’t sprout from the earth fully formed with all your faculties?” 

“If you’re going to be facetious, the very least you can do is get the allegory correct.” 

“If you’re going to be greedy, at least finish your own food before you start on mine.”


	23. Body's Betraying Me

###### 20 Dec 1996

“I told you, I won’t be hungry.” 

“Tomorrow? How can you tell you won’t be hungry tomorrow? If it’s your girlish figure you’re worrying about, I think you’re well away from looking like your brother. Can you please just try to eat something? Father will have had Mrs. Carter cook an enormous dinner and you have to at least make a show of enjoying it.” 

“Because my enjoyment or lack of enjoyment in eating will affect how much they enjoy their own meals,” Sherlock said. 

“Exactly. Look, I haven’t told my father what you’re going through, so he’ll think you’re just being moody or something. You’re fifteen, most boys your age could eat twice their weight.” 

“If I was most boys my age, I wouldn’t be escaping all contact with my family by running away with the person they hired to keep me presentable.” 

“Oh, wouldn’t you? Sounds dreadfully conventional if you ask me.” They were silent till the train pulled into the next station, apart from Victor’s humming. 

“I’ll probably be hungry the day after tomorrow,” Sherlock said. Victor laughed loud and long, so that the conductor looked warily at the handsome young man with his arm around the shivering, sullen boy.

  


However sullen he’d been on the trip down, Sherlock was trying. He really was. He smiled at the booming and boisterous Lord Trevor, let himself be pinched and prodded by him and Mrs. Carter like he, too, was their own son. He charmed Lord Trevor with his knowledge of important and sensational events in legal history, precedents, and proceedings over the past few years, despite his utter lack of understanding of the laws that shaped those events. He sat and sipped his tea and said thank-you-very-much and this-is-quite-a-lovely-house and didn’t make a face (or much of one) when Lord Trevor sent his regards to Mycroft. It was while they were waiting for dinner, listening to Victor’s Debussy on the grand piano. Sherlock had walked calmly out of the room like nothing was wrong when he knew he had to get out of there, _now_ , and he’d gone upstairs and soaked his face in ice cold water. The dizziness had hit him all at once. He was trying. He really was. He just didn’t give himself enough time to breathe. He tried to get downstairs quickly and his head started spinning. Didn’t remember which door led to where. Whether he’d gone up one flight of stairs or two. There was a door and he went through it and there was a bed on the other side and every one of his bones ached and he just desperately needed to lie down for a moment. He climbed onto the bed and clung to the comforter as if he’d fall off into space if he let go. There were many posters on the wall but the one he could get into sharp enough focus was of a group of teenage girls in bright colours, attempted punk-ish hairstyles, ones like kids wore when he was really young. They’d look tacky now. Looked like posers then. But then that too faded from his sight. 

Victor was shaking him awake. Not that he’d been asleep so much as not awake. 

“Come on. Can’t do this here. Not in this room.” Sherlock let Victor help him to his feet. As soon as he was upright, his bones started screaming again and he felt his heart rate increase and his thoughts shatter and shout over each other. One kept repeating, more than the others, but as soon as it entered his head he’d forget it. Oh: Why not this room. He stopped Victor at the doorframe and turned back. Girl’s room. Late teens. Loud. Crowded. Stacks of paper. Early 90’s. 1993 at the latest. No. 1992. At the latest. Swivel back to face Victor. 

“You had a sister.” 

“Yeah, but not anymore. Don’t let Dad catch you in here, he’ll get upset.” He was trying to be good. He’d show Victor it wasn’t a mistake to take him. He got all the way to the spare room with his bags in it before he started shouting at Victor. Why was he shouting? What was he saying? It was just... must have been something that pissed him off. Or maybe he was shouting ‘I’m sorry.’ Pounding his fists on the wooden side table. Didn’t used to get panic attacks when detoxing. New. 

Victor finally came back. Sherlock heard the door unlocking but didn’t bother to move from the spot on the floor or to wipe his eyes or face. 

“What did she die of?” Sherlock asked. Victor’s voice was the only thing that didn’t make this fucking terrible headache worse. 

“Meningitis.” 

“You’re lying.” 

“Am I?” Victor didn’t look at all sad. Weren’t people supposed to look sad? He was wearing that easy smile. That mask of brightness again. Right. It was the father that fell apart, not Victor. Victor was the one to pick people up, not the one to be carried. So he had to smile at death. 

“How old?” 

“How old do you think?” 

“Eighteen.” 

“Nineteen.” 

“Damn.” 

“You were close, though. And you’ve seen- well, better days, so perhaps you could afford to be off by a year.” Victor picked up a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“I’d appreciate it if you tried to outlive her. Think of it as a challenge.” Sherlock looked up and laughed. 

“Nineteen? Easy. I’m not _that_ bored yet. I’m planning on giving you a run for your money in the Dapper Young Gentleman category. Check in with me at thirty and watch me be a well-adjusted functioning member of society.” 

“Bollocks.” 

“What, to being alive or to being well-adjusted?” 

“I thought you were the genius, figure it out. You at thirty? I tremble to think.” 

“You’ll see, Mycroft’ll have gotten his money’s worth from you. That is, if you haven’t given up on me by then.” 

Victor crouched down next to Sherlock and leaned his face in close. Sherlock could feel his breath on his ear. 

“I won’t give up on you, if you don’t get bored of me.” Heart rate. Still elevated. Breathing regulated though. So not just the panic attack.


	24. Flatmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I would imagine..."_   
>  _"I'm never bored."_

###### 1 October 2010

“Am I difficult to live with, John?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“This is the longest I’ve ever lived with a person. I’m trying to understand if I have changed with age or if you are in some capacity extraordinary.” John laughed and continued to sop up the syrup in the carpet with a dishtowel. 

“I’d hazard a guess that I’m extraordinary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super duper short chapter but i'm posting a way longer one in a few minutes SO THERE


	25. Seeds

###### 21 Dec 1996

The next morning Sherlock came down to breakfast before Victor. Lord Trevor was already at the dining table having his coffee. The older man smiled at Sherlock, who noted that his smile was nothing like his son’s. The father had been muscular in his youth, and the signs of strength had not all left him. He had a square set jaw and blue eyes that were hard until they twinkled. Even at this early hour he was fully and carefully dressed. He gestured to the seat next to his, and Sherlock joined him. 

“Are you hungry? I’ve rung Mrs. Carter that you were coming down.” 

“Thank you, yes.” 

“Must be. For a boy to miss his dinner! Still, it is a long trip up here and I’m glad you got to rest. Is your room suitable?” 

“Very, thank you sir.” 

“Nothing like the Holmes property, I’m sure.” 

“No, thankfully.” Lord Trevor looked sideways at Sherlock for that. 

“You’re not like your brother.” 

“No.” _Thankfully._

“Mycroft and I are of the old stock. Stubbornly clinging to existence while the world looks to newer, bright young things, like you and Victor.” 

“I gathered the reason that my brother admired your son was because he was also of that older breed.”

“Well, he puts on a good show,” the older man chuckled, “But it’s just to keep me happy. As if I could be happier with him as anything other than he is. No, my son may look and he may speak as if he’s wandered in from the last century, but in his heart he’s not like me. Not like your brother. No, he’s impatient. For life. Wouldn’t have anything to do with tradition when he was younger. But, like I said, he puts on a good show for my benefit.” 

“He’s always been exceptionally patient with me.” 

“Most likely because your impatience even outstrips his,” the old man said. His low chuckle seemed to rumble the heavy wood of the table they sat at. But it was not a reprimand. Just teasing. 

“He’s been telling me that you seem to have inherited the same astonishing intellectual abilities as your elder brother,” the judge continued. 

“Mycroft’s cleverer,” Sherlock said through a mouthful of tomato. 

“Wouldn’t know it, to hear Victor talk of it, though you do seem to be using your powers for less... _diplomatic_... intentions. He told me about how you took down that Don. Now that won’t do, will it.” 

“He couldn’t even fathom the possibility of arsenical metabolization, how was I supposed to take him seriously when he tried to teach us about structural synthesis?” 

“And how you embarrassed the Swiss ambassador’s son.” 

“He was the one who insisted on making the bet in public. And it’s not my fault if he doesn’t know the history of his own country.” 

The heavy oak rumbled again against the judge’s belly. 

“And what do you propose to do with these skills?” Sherlock shrugged. 

"My main work is centred around chemistry, but I'm not very interested in medicine or pharmaceutical research. My father wanted me to go to Sandhurst, thought that it would teach me some discipline and all that. But that’s... that’s just not going to happen." 

"You showed an interest in my work last night. Have you considered the law?" 

"I'm not sure the law would consider me." 

"There's more to law than barristers. Perhaps something less technical and more hands-on." 

"Like the police? I think Mycroft would have a fit." 

"Think about your work. You are a scientist. Have you thought about pathology or forensic science?" The judge studied the look on Sherlock's silent and thoughtful face. 

"It's not all paternity testing and UV lights, and an innovative mind in a growing field is sure to distinguish itself." 

Sherlock played with the hem on his napkin. His hands were scrubbed clean but still told the story of how he filled his days. Nicotine stains on the first two fingers of the right hand. Acid burn across the left wrist. Scabs fading across both knuckles. And the vein on the back of his left hand, bruised, pricked, and healing.


	26. Engima and an Open Book

###### 7 September 2010

They were watching the trial on the telly. Well, John was watching the telly. Sherlock was watching John. It was the last case they’d had. Back in July. Now the air was cooler and the sun softer, but there was still a visible line on John’s biceps where his shirtsleeves habitually ended. Sherlock’s face was pale and smooth as ever. The sun had been banished from the dark of his bedroom for most of the summer. On the soft insides of his elbows, those dark red freckles were withering away, starved of their nourishment.  
His self-imposed hermitage for the past two months meant that this was the first time in a long time that he had studied John. He’d gone weeks without even seeing his face. And yet whose voice had nagged him every morning? Who had left food out in the middle of the night, ostensibly by accident (but Sherlock knew John never left food out by accident), just when he’d needed it? Who had been there like nothing happened the first morning he felt he could get up?  


The last time he’d studied John, it was clear that John hadn’t figured it out yet. It was so obvious, yet written all over his face was oblivion. He wondered when that changed. Sometime when Sherlock wasn’t looking. John was a terrible liar, when he tried to fit untruths into reality. Sherlock had only seen him attempt this once. An impossibly honest face. So it was strange how much it could hide. Not cramming untruths into reality, but keeping truths concealed from it. It was the same face as two months ago. Blank and easy. And yet it was clear he knew now. And he had just accepted it as part of life. As part of his life. This was the way things were.  


John’s face was frowning, now. When he smiled with his lips tight and his eyebrows drawn together, it meant he found something ridiculous or unfair.  


“They don’t even mention that they had any help at all. There’s no way they could have caught him on their own.” Sherlock looked back at the TV screen.  


“You know that’s not why I do this, John.”  


He got up and switched the set off, flipping the remote in the air and catching it behind his back.  


“Consulting Detective. It was Lord Trevor, Victor’s father, who suggested it. I invented the career but he provided the inspiration. Before that it was just a party trick. Something to frighten children. Keep myself entertained. Lord Trevor’s suggestion probably saved me from a deathly induction into a career in civil service, like my brother had lined up for me- any door will open to you, as long as it’s All for Queen and Country.”  


“I can’t see you with a bright future in diplomacy.”  


“He would have found some use for me. Keep me behind a desk till I died of boredom or send me out in the field to do the work no one else wanted to dirty their hands with.”  


“Good thing Lord Trevor came along, then.” Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at John’s face again. Blank with oblivion or hidden knowledge?  


“Mmm. Yes,” he mumbled, and continued to pace from the kitchen to the living room, still tossing the remote.  


“Well, if Consulting Detective didn’t work out, you could always have become a baton major,” John said, as the remote crashed to the tiled floor and the batteries rolled out.  


“It was over that long holiday,” Sherlock said, ignoring John, “He was known as a merciful judge, but with a strict adherence to the law. The only thing he loved more than his son was their family’s position in society- upholding the name, honoring the endless lineage. Well. Not _endless_ , with Victor at one end. Not the type to settle down and procreate, although it is possible that there are some little bastard Trevors clinging to the skirts of some nurse or librarian or actress turned waitress. Still, probably not what Trevor Senior had in mind.” John chuckled.  


“You two must have made quite a pair.”


	27. Consider Well and Bear in Mind

###### 23 Dec 1996

Victor knocked softly on Sherlock's door but came in without waiting for a reply. Sherlock had already wrapped himself in the blankets and was lying diagonally across the bed, staring out at the stars. His fingers were navigating an invisible violin. Victor fell across the unoccupied corner of the bed and propped himself up on his elbows. 

“What song is that?” 

“Nothing important. Wexford Carol. Do you know anyone who speaks Yola?” 

"Not offhand. Not yet, anyway. Called Mycroft today. Had to check in.” 

“I hope he gave you a Christmas bonus.” 

“You’d best believe it.” 

“So you told him I’m clean?” 

“Of course. I told him the truth.” 

“He’s at my father’s?” 

“Yes. Mycroft says your father understands that you won’t have time to come down before term begins.” 

Sherlock grinned. 

“He says he’ll consider whether or not his work will permit him to visit once school starts,” Victor finished. 

“Heaven forbid.” 

“I think that’s rather more up to you than Heaven.” 

“Well, it’s up to your reporting of me.” 

“I’m done lying to your brother. You want me to tell him what an angel you’re being? You keep working at it,” Victor warned. He shifted onto one elbow and carded his fingers through the black curls poking out of the top of the blanket. 

“You are working at it, though. I said I’m done lying to Mycroft and I am- I could honestly tell him how strong you’ve been. Best behavior and all. And my father loves you.” 

“Tell him I’ve managed three days in polite company without disgracing the Holmes name. Now if he can go that long without getting involved in some international incident, well I might start believing in miracles.” 

“Yes, Sherlock, there _is_ a Father Christmas!” Victor laughed. 

“No, that’s just Mycroft after the pudding.” The way the older boy broke out laughing, clear and loud, fascinated the younger one. It used to be a daily sound, but was recently so rare. He studied Victor laughing, the way he could see it in his throat, the crinkles in his cheeks and eyelids, the way his own face mirrored Victor’s.


	28. What Mrs. Hudson Knew

###### 7 September 2010

He had moved on from the remote control and was now juggling the skull and the knife that held the mail in place. Actually juggling. An open knife. John was eyeing him warily and typing up case notes. He had started with the case they had just finished, but without even really meaning to, had started gathering some notes about what Sherlock had been telling him about the Trevors. Not that that was a case. But it was so rare that Sherlock actually came out and told him anything about the early part of his life. He usually just had to glean bits and pieces from things Mycroft or Lestrade said. Once he’d even gotten Mrs. Hudson to tell him a little about Sherlock when he’d helped her out with her husband. Young, alone, and hungry, she’d said. She hadn’t lived at Baker Street back then, she’d been living in a place in the South Bank. She said she’d seen this kid on a bench staring at her window, he’d been sitting there every day for a week, and he was well dressed but always wearing the same thing. She said she’d been a little unnerved, actually, and was thinking about calling the police on him, till one day he finally stood up and rang her doorbell and told her- not asked her- that she needed his help with her husband, but that she needed to get him something to eat first. 

“Has he ever mentioned a Victor Trevor to you?” Mrs. Hudson looked around as if Sherlock might spring out of the shadows at her, and furtively shook her head. 

“Only once. I never thought he’d talk about him to you though... He’s a funny one, our boy is.” 

“Why wouldn’t he mention him to me?” Mrs. Hudson fidgeted with her vol-au-vents uncomfortably and coughed. 

“Dear, I really do need help with the bins if you’re done with your tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey got some Mrs. Hudson for ya!


	29. J.A.

###### 24 Dec 1996

The cold air cut through the steam and hit Victor as soon as he opened the bathroom door. He shivered as he toweled off his hair, and watched as shirts flew out of his wardrobe to gather in a heap on the floor. 

“Dear, I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need my closet reorganised before church, the sock index is quite enough.” 

“I’m not reorganising. I need your clothes. None of mine fit me anymore.” He climbed out of the wardrobe, swimming in a pinstriped shirt. “And I’m trying to look right. Like you want me to.” He stood in front of the floor length mirror and started stuffing the shirttails into the borrowed dress trousers. Victor laughed to himself and walked past Sherlock. Reaching into the back of the closet, he pulled out a hanger bearing something covered. He hung it on the mirror, blocking Sherlock’s view of himself. 

“It’s your Christmas present.” He pulled an undershirt on and watched as Sherlock unzipped the covering. It was a suitcoat and trousers with a fresh shirt in pale blue. 

“It should fit, but if it doesn’t we can go for tailoring,” he said. He reached a hand out to Sherlock’s neck and unbuttoned the borrowed shirt. Sherlock was feeling the fabric on the jacket and didn’t bother to help him. Once he was in the new suit, it covered his wrists and didn’t hang off his shoulders, and made his already tall frame seem taller. 

Sherlock grinned, “They’re like disguises.” 

“Yes, we’re all boys disguised as men. You look good, dear. To be fair, I always think you look good, but now everyone else’ll know you’re a classy gent. Now come on, we’ll be late for church and we have to sit in the family pew in front so there’s no way we can slip in quietly.” 

Even in church, Sherlock was trying. He was. He and Victor rolled their eyes at each other, but only when everyone’s heads were bent in prayer, and they made rude comments about the sermon, but only under their breaths. He stood up straight and smiled at people who came up to talk to them after the service. So Victor wasn’t expecting it when it all got too much for Sherlock. When he started to let his facade crumble. He hoped it was just a momentary slip when they got home and Sherlock asked Mrs. Carter why she had lied about never taking a drink, or if she didn’t think it counted if it was Lord Trevor’s spirits and she only drank when she was alone in the house? Victor smiled pointedly and refused to let his face flush when Sherlock explained that, no, the food was nothing like he’d had growing up, because his family had much more money than the Trevors. But as they sat over the beautiful dinner in the warmth of the fire, he could not stay silent when Sherlock asked his father if Victor’s mother had also been a drug addict, and if that was where Victor’s sister had originally been exposed to it. 

“Sherlock!” Victor shouted. He got up and grabbed the boy by the arm and pushed him into the hallway. He tried to ignore his father’s stunned and paper-white face. 

“What are you thinking, you little shit? Have you completely lost your mind? If you’re such a genius, why can’t you try to imitate someone with manners for once!” he hissed, once the door had shut behind them. Sherlock shook his arm free. He was stronger than he used to be. 

“You can make me stop using and you can dress me up like a puppet but you can’t stop me thinking and in this insanely dull house it’s all I can do!” 

“Sherlock, I’ll call Mycroft and send you to your father’s!” Victor spoke in anger and knew he’d needed to say something to get through to him, but he still felt like a monster when Sherlock looked at him with scared red eyes. 

“You wouldn’t.” Victor took a breath and shook his head. 

“No. No I wouldn’t. But don’t make me regret taking you here. Please.” He held Sherlock’s face between his hands and pressed a kiss to his lips, “I’m sorry, darling. Look, take a breath. You can do this. You’ve been brilliant these last few days, you’ve been so strong this whole last month.” He made himself smile, and took the boy’s wrist gently. 

“I can’t do this, I _can’t_ do this.” 

“ _Yes you can_ ,” Victor said slowly. 

“I need a fucking cigarette,” Sherlock growled, jerking his hand back and shoving it in his pockets, finding them devoid of tobacco. Victor took his own out. They were his brand, not Sherlock’s, but they would have to do. 

“Go take a break. You have to apologize to my father when you come back in, please Sherlock,” he said, giving him the cigarettes and a lighter. Sherlock went out through the kitchen and Victor went back into the dining room, making his own apologies. 

“Father, I’m so sorry. He’s been ill-” 

“No, no,” Lord Trevor interrupted, waving it away. The blood had returned to his face but he scarcely took his eyes of his roast, “The boy knew no better. He is, no doubt, used to much more open discussion than I am accustomed to.” Victor reluctantly sat back down and continued his meal. Ten minutes passed and Sherlock had still not returned. Lord Trevor was silently considering something, and finally spoke. 

“Victor, how did he know about Gloria?” Victor composed his features well and replied. 

“He got lost the first night we were here and accidentally went into her room.” 

“But how did he know about... about her condition? Did you tell him?” 

“No, Father, I didn’t. That’s just Sherlock. He took one look at her room and knew it all.” 

Lord Trevor didn’t believe Victor and told him so, but Victor insisted that that was how Sherlock worked, he could see a person’s history in the soles of their shoes, let alone their whole room. 

The door opened and Sherlock came through. It had been thirty-five minutes, and he was holding his jacket instead of wearing it. Victor’s eyes instantly went to Sherlock’s hands, forearms, nose. His sleeves were unrolled and buttoned, so his view was obstructed, but he wasn’t sniffing and his hands were steady. 

“Lord Trevor, I owe you an apology. I have already expressed myself to Mrs. Carter who was gracious enough to listen to me. You have welcomed me into your house and... and...” At this point, Victor would have said something about the importance of respecting privacy, or acknowledging the depth of someone’s sorrow and expressing empathy for that experience, but those were a little beyond Sherlock, who simply ended with, “And I’m sorry.” Well, it was better than nothing. And he was trying. 

Lord Trevor nodded gruffly at Sherlock, and reached over to clap his hand on his back twice as he sat back down. 

“Victor tells me you knew all that just by seeing Gloria’s room. Now, I don’t want to discuss that any further, but would you swear to no prior knowledge? Victor must have told you something.” 

“No, Victor told me nothing. Nothing true, anyway. It’s how I see the world.” 

“Well, your powers of observation, of recall, are clearly exceptional, but to that extent? It’s not possible.” 

“Lord Trevor, I notice things that other people could see, but don’t. But it’s not just to embarrass my teachers or memorize lessons. It’s quite simple, really. I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce... well, everything. And then, when I've eliminated whatever’s impossible, then what remains, no matter how mad it might seem, that must be the truth.” 

Lord Trevor stared at Sherlock for a while. Victor felt that this dinner would never be over. Then his father began to chuckle. 

“Simple, is it? Well then, have a go at me. I’d like to observe you in action, if you will.” 

“Father, I’m not sure that...” Victor began, but it was too late, Sherlock’s manic gleam lit up the whole table. He covered how many years Trevor had boxed. He saw his visits to Japan, to New Zealand, to India. He noted that the man was afraid of a break-in. Lord Trevor was extremely impressed and hung on every word of Sherlock’s explanation. Both of them grinned, one in admiration and one in self-satisfaction. Victor, unusually nervous, hoped that Sherlock would deduce that he was wishing he’d shut the bloody hell up. Sherlock bit his thumbnail and eyed Lord Trevor greedily, and for a moment Victor hoped he was done and was basking in his father’s accolades. But he was not in luck. 

“One last thing. I can't quite make this one out. Who is J.A.? You used to owe a great allegiance to that person, but now you wish you could forget them. But you can’t.” Sherlock looked proud and mischievous. Victor was staring in annoyance at Sherlock, and thinking he must have, for once, been completely off the mark- no one in his family had the initials J.A., not his mother nor sister, and he had never heard of anyone with those initials spoken of by his father. Since he was staring at Sherlock, he was first alerted to something wrong by seeing the change in the boy’s face, from impish pride to shock and concern. He looked back at his father to see him standing, with his face once more paper-white and his hand clasped over his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas!! wait....


	30. Surprising Observation

###### 9 September 2010

“I was quite surprised that my observation had had such an effect on Lord Trevor, to say the least.” 

“But was he alright?” John asked. He was so engaged in Sherlock’s story that he was still holding the Tesco’s bag and wearing his jacket. 

“Yes, he was fine. It was Christmas so he refused a doctor until Boxing Day, but he recovered quickly. He was a strong man, as I said before.” 

“Who was J.A.? How did you know that he knew someone with those initials?” 

“Laser tattoo removal. Can leave a range of scarring, including lightening of the skin in the shape of the design. Lord Trevor was fond of the outdoors and his skin was tanned from it, but on the ring finger of his right hand you could just make out the outline of the letters J.A. Could look like nothing, if you weren’t really looking.” Sherlock peeled open a new nicotine patch and stuck it onto the inside of his arm.


	31. As If Even I Would Laugh

###### 10 October 2010

_It’s hard to watch him trying to keep it together. Thinking that I don’t notice. I mean, between us both, we could write a book about not wanting people to notice when something’s wrong. I know. But he thinks I don’t know. He thinks I went through the Afghanistan War and don’t know the signs. I don’t think he’s used since the end of August. Mycroft kept calling all summer but I told him that if he wants to help he should stay away. Sherlock didn’t need to deal with that superior git on top of everything else._

_He looks like such a kid sometimes. A scared kid. Like Mrs. Hudson said. As if even I’d laugh at him, as if I’d call him a freak like Sally does. I don’t know how he ever managed on his own. I’m guessing not very successfully. Although maybe he’s never really been on his own. I wonder what finally sent Trevor away. If it would be enough to send me away, too. I can’t imagine it would._


	32. Susceptibility

###### 15 October 2010

“I stayed on with Victor and his father for the rest of the winter holiday. I didn’t think Victor should be left to take care of the old man himself, and I there was nowhere else I would rather have been.” 

John raised his eyebrows at this. 

“Shut up, John, you know what I mean. There was no other more interesting competition for my attention. Judge Trevor kept to his bed for a week and after that he puttered around the house. He regained most of his strength quickly but his age had finally started to catch up to him and after that, he was much more susceptible to illness.” Sherlock picked at the edge of his nicotine patch. John considered ways of telling him it hadn’t been his fault. He couldn’t decide on one. 

“Did he ever explain who J.A. was?”


	33. James Armitage

###### 31 Dec 1996

Sherlock hadn’t seen Judge Trevor since Christmas. Give him space. Didn’t want to get him over excited. Didn’t know how he was supposed to act- apologetic or sympathetic or like nothing happened. Instead, he’d spent the week roaming the village and searching, in vain, for his brand of cigarettes. Luckily for him, Mycroft sent a carton of them that arrived the day after Boxing Day. 

He was sharing them with Mrs. Carter in the courtyard behind the kitchen. She was going into the village to see the fireworks after she finished cooking dinner for the family. Victor came out just as Sherlock was about to tell Mrs. Carter how her meals that week had revealed her relationship with the butcher. Thankfully, Victor forestalled him. Victor pretended not to notice Mrs. Carter hurriedly extinguishing her cigarette as he joined them. She excused herself and left the boys together. 

“He wouldn’t mind if you went up and sat with him for awhile,” Victor said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“And say what? I’m sorry I could see things about you that nearly gave you a heart attack?” 

“Can you imagine how bored you’d be if you were him?” 

Sherlock considered that for a minute. He sighed and stubbed out his cigarette.  


  


It was that day that Lord Trevor told him. 

“You could make a living with that brain of yours, boy. Not just pathology. Not just forensic science. A detective, with all those skills combined. I believe it’s what you were born for. You could see the blood on the most washed hands. There’s no secrets from you. Although you didn’t figure out who J.A. was, did you?” Trevor laughed at the frustration on Sherlock’s face. 

“Well, don’t be too hard on yourself, you’re not quite a mind reader.” He sighed and glanced at the door. Shut tight. 

“My son does not know this story, and I suppose there’s no keeping it from him once I tell you. Still, I’d rather come clean of it before you read it in the way I comb my hair. These ghosts were buried deep till you came... 

“J.A. stands for James Armitage. A man I owed my life to, a man I never met, and yet I fear his name to this day. When I was a junior barrister, just about Victor’s age, I was approached by some extremely influential associates, who invited me to join their fraternity. At the time, I was only known as my father’s younger, less successful son, and I was honored that they paid me notice. I was eager for any distinction that distinguished me from my brother. Something maybe you can understand. It was shrouded in secrecy, as many fraternities are, and I believed there was nothing strange in that. Many of its members were very private men. 

“Part of the initiation consisted of tattooing one’s own skin with a mark of the society. The mark I chose was the initials of its name- J.A. I chose my hand because it was easily covered by my family’s signet ring, which, as you can see, only fits on my smallest finger now. A few years back I tried to have the tattoo removed... not entirely successfully, as you pointed out. 

“They told me that membership in this society afforded not only the camaraderie of its members, but protection and loyalty. I attended its meetings, its parties. I learned its code and its pledge. I was a model member, as well as- for many years- its youngest. Two years after initiation, I was promoted within the society to a junior officer. In recognition of this promotion, I was told that I would be receiving a promotion in my professional capacity as well. Soon after, the head of my firm decided to resign, and handed over the reins to me, although that position at my age was unheard of. I thought, at the time, it was just based on a recommendation provided by the society. This new position put me in line, at a later time, for Justice of the Peace, a station that I served with utmost dedication and, I believe I can say, with success. 

“Years later, when my late wife was pregnant with Victor, I was approached by some of the most senior members of the society. They told me they came in the name of James Armitage himself. They said that I would soon be hearing a case, and that I should... interpret the evidence in a certain way. Their phrasing was delicate and innocent, but left no room for doubt- they were asking me to convict an innocent man, a conviction that would result in a long prison sentence, so that the man would no longer stand in the way of the promotion of one of the society members to a prominent position in the financial sector. 

“I refused their request. I told them there must be some other way, some other position that the member was fit for, equally as elevated. They were not pleased with me. They asked me how I thought I got to where I was that day, and revealed that it was through a similar scheme that I received the promotion that started my career. That it had been because of blackmail that my predecessor had resigned, and that in this case, that would not be possible. 

“I was stunned, to say the least. I told them that I was ashamed of the help the society had given me, and that I rescinded my membership. They told me that there was no leaving the J.A. Society, and that I would need them someday, that I would be back. I did not believe them. I thought there was no inducement on this earth that could convince me to go back to them. But that was before...” 

“Before your daughter started using drugs,” Sherlock finished for him. The old man’s face contracted in pain. 

“Would you like me to call the doctor?” Sherlock asked uneasily. 

“No doctor can fix what’s wrong with me,” he said, and continued his story, “But you’re right. She was... she was always angry, from when she was a little girl. I never could tell why. Always so clever, but so angry. We took her to every child psychologist we could find, none of them said anything substantially different from the others, nothing that made any difference. And then their mother died and she got worse. I blame myself, I never felt like I knew how to raise a little girl, and I let them give her all the medications they wanted. She would always refuse, and I would make her take them, and she would run away, but she always came back, for Victor. She started running away for longer and longer periods. Once I thought Victor had gone with her, but he’d gone to find her. He did, too. Don’t know how he managed it but he tracked her down and brought her back. He was only nine years old. 

“When she was eighteen, she left again, but this time she didn’t come back. Victor went to look for her and he couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally I received a ransom note.” The old man sighed, “Holmes, I’ve never been good with money. When my father raised me, it was not a problem he brought me up to worry about, but the estate fell into debt in his lifetime, and I never managed to bring it out again. We kept up all appearances of financial stability, probably living outside of our abilities in doing so, because I felt that what was the done thing. Even with my position, the family affairs were never quite what they once were. In fact, we were ruined. So the ransom demand was wildly outside the realms of possibility. I could not go to my friends without letting them see how far we had fallen. I was foolish enough to believe that mattered. They told me that if I went to the police she would be killed. I didn’t know what to do. So I went to the people I said I would never have anything to do with again...” 

“The James Armitage Society.” 

“I pleaded with them and they welcomed me back into their company with open arms. They acted like perfect gentlemen, and preached forgiveness. I could not have been more relieved. I asked them to help me pay the ransom, and in return I would pay them back in installments. They assured me that there would be no such need, and I was more grateful than I could have expressed. 

“The very next day, Victor’s sister was on our doorstep, battered and frightened and alone. When questioned, she said that that very morning, she had awoken in the place where she was being held, to find her captors neatly executed. There were no signs of the executioners, and she had been terrified that they were still there and would find her too. She ran back to us and promised she would never leave again. 

“I was horrified. It was not the help I had asked for, and I felt the blood on my own hands, though I was glad to have my daughter back. The whole ordeal chilled my soul. But to my surprise, I heard not one word from the society. I waited for them to ask for my terrible debt to be repaid, but nothing came. I waited for months in fear. I didn’t know they would be the last months I had with my daughter. 

“She died of an overdose early that autumn.” Lord Trevor was unable to speak for the next few moments. 

“ _That_ I can speak no more of. But as to the involvement of the society, I still heard nothing. It has been five years since I foolishly asked for their help. To this day the thought of them fills me with dread.” 

Lord Trevor rubbed the lightly scarred tissue above his knuckle. 

“I know your friendship with my son will make it impossible for you to conceal every aspect of my explanation, but I will ask you, as an honorable man, please consider Victor’s feelings in your telling of it. He has never shown me anything but love and respect, and to have it proved to be undeserved would hurt him more than myself.” 

“I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock replied. The old man chuckled, an echo of the oak-shaking rumbling from before. 

“No, sir, you are not. You are young, however, and youth makes fools of us all, though age often does little to remedy that. At least in my case.”


	34. Measures of Distance and Harm

###### 15 October 2010 

“How did you know about the sister?” John asked, when Sherlock had ceased speaking. 

“How did I know she had been a drug addict?” 

“Yes. You didn’t even know she existed before you went to their house, and she’d been dead years.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“John, there are very simple indications that a person is under the influence of narcotics-” 

“Yes, I know. I’m not as thick as you think I am, it’s easy to tell when a person’s using if they’re _alive_ , especially if they make barely any attempt to hide it, like you. But if they’re five years gone? That’d be a bit harder, I suppose.” Sherlock stared at John, with more than a little surprise. First time John had said anything about it. Let Sherlock know he knew about it. 

“John... I haven’t touched anything for months...” he began. 

“Yes, I know, since the summer. Cold turkey in August. Why do you think I’ve been so patient with you? I haven’t suddenly become a saint, you know. And I hope you know that if you need any help, I’d be more than happy to give it,” John said, interrupting him. 

Sherlock tried to hide the fact that he was taken off-guard by suddenly noticing a discrepancy in the organisation of the bookshelf, that warranted immediate attention. With his back towards John, he rattled off all the tells in Victor’s sister’s room- the bottle of eye drops left out, the positioning of the furniture and other objects in proximity to the bed, the sleeve lengths of the shirts, the pencil box that was so out of character with the rest of the room and so clearly was the hiding place for her tools, the burn marks on the desk and comforter, the cotton balls even though the girl didn’t wear makeup or paint her nails. How did he know she was dead? The fact that her room was treated like sacred ground. And Victor never spoke about her, and he was not the sort of person who would have cut ties with a sister if she’d only been disowned or disgraced in some way. 

John listened in his usual state of admiration. It was out in the open, then. And it didn’t change anything. John still stared at him like he was made of gold, and yelled at him like he was ten years old. John hadn’t tried to get him into rehab or lecture him. Yet. He waited until supper to bring it up again. John had got himself a beer from the fridge and hesitated in getting out a second for Sherlock. 

“I’m fully in control of whether or not I use artificial stimulants and which ones I choose to use. I have no problems drinking,” he told John. 

“Fully in control,” John repeated, incredulity in his voice. Ah. There it is. Doubt. Attempting to control his behavior. 

“ _Yes_ , John, I am in control. As I always have been. This summer I simply chose the most interesting stimuli, which remained drugs for a while.” 

“Ah, yes, very simple.” Sarcasm. John was getting angry. 

“I get _bored_ , John, I do what will best exercise or exorcise my mind.” 

“Yes, I know you get bored, the whole bloody world knows you get bored, but you don’t go killing people when you get bored, do you? You don’t, Sherlock, and you know why? What keeps you from doing that?” 

“It would be harder to annoy you from prison.” 

“ _No_ , Sherlock, it would be easier, much easier. But you don’t go ‘round shooting people because people would get hurt, and whether or not you’re aware of it, you give yourself boundaries.” 

“Well, going on that assumption, giving myself an outlet such as the drugs I choose to use is an excellent option, where no one gets hurt except conceivably myself- but in fact that is not conceivable as I know very well what I am doing and-” 

“ _Me_ , Sherlock, it bloody well hurts _me_.” John had slammed his bottle down on the tabletop, causing it to overflow with foam. Cursing to himself, John rushed into the kitchen with beer dripping from his hand. Convenient. Avoided the awkwardness of addressing John’s last statement. 

John stayed at the kitchen sink even after he had washed up the spilled beer. He was taking those deep breaths that his therapist recommended so highly. Sherlock didn’t follow him or shout into the kitchen. He wasn’t about to tell John that he promised never to touch it again, which was undoubtedly what John wanted to hear from him. He drank his own beer and held it against the crook of his arm till the cold turned his skin red. John was sitting on the settee now. Put distance between them. 

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. I’m a doctor and I’m your friend,” he said, in that forced-calm tone that people used when they didn’t want to yell at errant children, “I don’t ask you to not notice things, deduce things about people-” 

“Yes you do.” 

“In _general_ , when we’re not with my sister-in-law’s bloody gran!” John caught himself shouting and did another deep breath, “Okay, nine times out of ten. I let you do your job. I _love_ when you do your job. It’s amazing. But you can’t ask me not to do _my_ job. Did I ask you to get clean? Did I ask you to dump your stash?” 

“No.” 

“No. I asked you to come to me when you need help. And I told you how I feel about it. That’s all.” 

“Right, that’s it,” Sherlock said sarcastically. 

“Yes, that is. That’s all.” Firm. Calm. John downed the rest of his beer and got up, getting his jacket from the post. More distance. He turned to Sherlock and nodded. It was a question. 

“Alright?” 

Alright. Alright. 

Yes, he supposed it was. 

“I can’t promise anything, John.” 

“And I can’t promise that I won’t call you a fucking wanker once in a while. We good?” 

“Yeah, okay.” John stood on the other side of the room. Was going out. Still, less distance. Roundabout.


	35. New Year

###### 1 Jan 1997

Contrary to Lord Trevor’s expectations, Sherlock told Victor nothing about his father’s story. Near midnight on New Year’s Eve the two of them walked down to the green next to the duck pond and watched the tiny firework display with the rest of the village. Together, they pretended not to see Mrs. Carter hand in hand with the butcher, at least while she could still see them. Everyone in the village knew Victor and greeted him warmly. At half past eleven, a small crowd of young people gravitated towards him, transparently hoping to be the closest to him at the stroke of midnight. But when the clock chimed and Auld Lang Syne was sung, Victor had disappeared from their sight. In the car park on the other side of the green, behind the petrol station that Mr. Tanner had closed early for the holiday, in the night air that smelled of oil and flint and frost, Victor slipped his tongue inside Sherlock’s mouth and let his hands hover over the unwashed black curls. As the twelfth bell sounded, Sherlock shivered and wrapped his coat tighter around himself. Victor drew back slowly. 

“New Year’s kiss. How quaint,” Sherlock said, mildly mocking. 

“I’m glad you find me ridiculous. Happy New Year, you little shit,” Victor said, laughing. He turned away and walked back to join the others on the green, Sherlock following.

  


They stayed in Norfolk for the remainder of the holiday. Lord Trevor was sufficiently recovered by the end of it, and the two boys returned to university together.


	36. The John Watson You Knew

###### 20 October 2010

He didn’t know how long he had walked. A while, certainly- the sun had been shining in full when he’d left. But now it wasn’t completely set and its warmth had not deserted the air, though John still turned his collar up in anticipation of the cool autumn dusk. Sherlock hadn’t said a word all day, but the noise of London still seemed quieter than a perpetually moaning phone and the scraping of bow against strings. Not very easy to find distractions with that going on. Between worrying about Harry, who _swore_ she was sober, and worrying about Sherlock, who just swore, John just needed something to take his mind off it all. And if that stupid moaning phone went off one more bloody time... 

Quick march. Chill coming on. Right on past Whitechapel. Nearing Brick Lane. Sherlock’s text alert played in his head like a bad pop tune looping round. Maybe he’d get himself a curry. Maybe he’d just get himself drunk. Why was he suddenly so agitated? He and Sherlock hadn’t discussed the drugs again after the other day. He’d stopped telling John about his days in uni, too. John had been writing them down, thought it might have been a good addition to the blog- it’d been a bit sparse lately. Still hadn’t found out what that note meant, the religious-sounding one. He knew there was more to that story. _That_ must have been it. Leaving things unfinished. Stories half told. Must be what was annoying him. He knew that story meant more to Sherlock than he would let on. 

Maybe he’d go on Sarah’s Facebook and look up if Victor Trevor was on there. Get the story from him. No, Sherlock would know somehow. Wasn’t about to try to get it out of Mycroft. Didn’t sound like even he’d know the whole of it, anyway. 

Whatever the rest of the story was, it was clear Sherlock had been just as much of an insufferable wanker then as he was now. No wonder that prick Sebastian hated him. 

He frowned, angry at himself for thinking that. 

“ _Just jealous that you didn’t know him back then. Wondering what it was like to watch him work. What it was like to watch him grow up_ ,” said a really annoying voice inside his head. _Grow up?_ Man had the emotional maturity of a seven year old, he couldn’t have missed that much. 

But jealous? He ignored that question for the moment. Went into a shop to buy a coffee. They only sold tea. And didn’t take cards. 

Jealous? 

Of who? Of the kids at school with Sherlock? A bunch of posh snobs who couldn’t see past their own reputations enough to appreciate Sherlock? Ah, kids are kids, they were probably just threatened by him. Of who then? Of Trevor? 

Was he just Trevor’s replacement, then? 

“ _I_ need _an assistant. Anderson won’t work with me._ ” 

Text alert moaned in his head. Would he, too, soon be gone the way of Victor Trevor? Replaced by a fitter, smarter model in latex and lipstick? 

He leaned on the police station building across from the tea shop and let the cold of the bricks work its way through his jacket. London rushed by, unconcerned as to the questions John Watson asked himself, as to whether or not he found the answers. All the people, all the cars, moving at identical speeds. All grey and indistinguishable. 

Except for one thing. One alive, still thing. In a window above the tea shop. A girl. Staring out the window. Staring at him. 

She didn’t look away when he met her eyes. Dark. Expressionless. She sipped from a cup and looked down at him through the open window. 

Oh. Sherlock’s girl. The one with the money in her shoe. With her free hand she dragged on a cigarette. Flicked her ash so it fell almost shimmering down to the street. 

Most people, upon making eye contact with someone they’ve vaguely met before, will smile, or if they don’t want to do that, they’ll look away quickly and pretend they never saw the other person. This girl refused to do either. Wasn’t glaring, just looked down at him like he was a slightly interesting object. 

But then, he didn’t look away or smile, either. Suppose he was doing the same thing. Finally he broke the gaze and watched the ash from her cigarette drift down, past the shop window, down to the sidewalk. The flurry of ash stopped, and John looked up again. She was gone. Shade drawn. 

  


" _I'm not the John Watson you knew._ " 

He heard his words to Mike echo in his mind. He wasn't, he knew that. It was true. Days past, John Watson could walk into a room, all 5 feet 6 inches of him, and turn every girl's head as if he was the tallest one there. All it would take was a bit of a smile out of the side of his mouth. He didn't even have to try. Confident. Popular. Brash without being loud. Worked hard and played twice as hard as that. Ready for anything (well, that hadn’t changed). Sure of himself. He supposed... happy. Not yet torn apart. 

In days past, he wouldn't have given Sherlock a second glance. No, that's wrong. He would have given him many second glances, but... they would have been lightly scornful, disbelieving. Wouldn't have understood, or tried to understand, why Sherlock couldn't just be normal, couldn't just be like everyone else. Yes, maybe he would’ve told the other blokes to sod off, or at least ease off a bit, when they inevitably started to lay into Sherlock. He always stood up for Mike, so wouldn’t he have done the same for anyone? For Sherlock? He wouldn’t have joined in with them in their mockery, but would have told himself things like, 'He brings it on himself,' and 'Well, he _is_ a bit of a weirdo, that one.' His teeth gritted against each other as he realized that John Watson of days past would have thought the same thing of John Watson of now. Bit of a weirdo. A bit too hung up on his flatmate. 

He was a little jealous of that boy, admittedly, of the youth and freedom and brightness, but angry at him too. Angry that anyone- even himself- even his past self in his own imagination, would speak that way about Sherlock. 

_Well, we all do stupid things when we're young. We're all shitey-arsed little bastards and don't know it._

And John Watson now. Tables turned. Who's the cool kid now, John? Served him right, didn't it? The adoration with which he looked at Sherlock. Thought of him. How he wanted to impress him, the rush Sherlock's regard and notice gave him. Even when Sherlock was being an annoying bloody git. The crushing panic that he knew would overwhelm him if his world was once again empty of Sherlock. 

Well, war changes a person. That much everyone knew. He conceded that. 

_And you know what else changes a person, don’t you John?_

Oh, shut up.

  


Once again, when John left the flat, Sherlock found himself automatically running through an inventory of John's things. All present and accounted for. He'd have to come back. Wasn't leaving for good. Just stepped out. 

John's minimal possessions. Not a person of excess, but particular in his own way and not the sort to leave his things behind. Meant he'd be coming back. Sherlock felt disgust twisting in his stomach. _Pathetic, Sherlock._ Hated himself for wishing he only had to count his own body to know John would be coming home. 

Sentimental. Ridiculous. Impossible. Laughable. 

Of course, John was fascinated by him, knew he was brilliant, yes. But hadn’t he always known that he drove John away more than he drew him close? He did, didn't he? One day it would be these things and these things alone that tied him to the flat. Wished he could make his brain stop counting and mentally locating John's books, John's laptop, John's mobile charger, John's pills, John's gun- these were the things that would bring him back home. 

Wished he didn't do this every time John stepped out of his sight. Silence pummeling him till he heard John's key, his footsteps returning. Didn't used to do this. If he had a case, he wouldn't do this. If he had some coke he wouldn't do this. If he had John he wouldn't do this. Stop. Stop. No. That never worked. Never would work. Never would happen. _Who do you think you are, Sherlock?_

Could really use some heroin right now. Could make it so easy. Could make it so quiet. But not like _this_ quiet, this quiet that screamed, _He's gone, He's gone, He's gone._

Maybe if he had some heroin right now it would drive John away once and for all. John would come home and see, and then finally gather up all his things and move them somewhere else. Expedite the inevitable. Like ripping off a bandage. Kinder thing to do for both of them, probably. Wouldn’t hurt John anymore that way. 

No. Stop it. Maudlin. Self-pitying. Yes, pitiful. Nothing is promised. But it would be alright. That’s what John said.

  


Bone shatter patterns from a third story fall. So successful at pummeling back at the silence that it had blocked his awareness of John on his way up Baker Street. 

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John shouted up, dodging out of the way of a package wrapped in numerous layer of bubble wrap that Sherlock had just flung from the roof. 

"Staying occupied." 

"Oh God- these aren't those feet are they? Sherlock, for God's sake, you can't throw feet off the roof!" 

"Why not? The street's empty, isn't it?" Sherlock yelled back. 

"Empty? What about me?" 

"I didn't see you. I didn't hit you though, either." 

John looked tired. Been walking quickly. Not happy. John shook his head. Disbelief. Amazement. Then a smile. Why a smile? He was shouting something else up to Sherlock. 

"You're ridiculous, you are. I'm not bringing your feet in off the street for you, I can tell you that, and don't you go making Mrs. Hudson do it, either." 

One more day that he came home. Today was apparently not the day he would manage to drive away John Watson.


	37. Habits

###### Feb 1997

For the next few months, things fell into place- that is, as much as they ever would. Victor was top of his classes. Sherlock took up boxing and fencing with a renewed passion, and his attendance in classes greatly improved. 

They still got invited to all the best parties. People still thought Sherlock was a little... unusual, but it was generally agreed that a little unusual never hurt a gathering. It became a favourite game: seeing who could get one over on him, lie to him and not get caught. A game that no one ever won. It incited awe in them, if not quite admiration. And who cared if he was a bit of a creep, since his presence always meant Victor would be there. 

Victor still disappeared from time to time, but when he re-emerged approximately half an hour later, Sherlock would not have escaped into the night, but would be waiting for him with a half-amused, half-disgusted expression. 

And when the drugs came around again, when he felt himself wanting to slip away, he had Victor to go to. Victor to keep him steady. Victor to hold onto for dear life.

  


His body was tense and shook against Victor’s arms, no matter how tight Victor held him. Tighter. As babies are swaddled to keep them from feeling like they’re falling. 

“It was fine, I was fine, I didn’t even want to, but I could smell it and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” Sherlock kept whispering in the dark. He’d told Victor they needed to leave as soon as they’d arrived. Girl who’d graduated the year before was dating the boy who threw the party. In her year off she’d apparently acquired the taste. Sherlock had spilled out all this information as Victor took him home. He could tell she was doing it the moment they’d opened the door. He didn’t even need to see her. Now he was shaking in Victor’s arms. It had been sixty-five days since he last shot up. Someone had once told Victor that it took twenty-one days to make, or break, a habit. They were wrong. 

“You want to know when I first picked it up,” Sherlock said. 

“Maybe you don’t need to think about that right now, sweets.” 

“There’s no way in hell I can’t think about it right now. It’s as good a time as any. You want to know, don’t you?” 

“If you want to tell me.” 

“One month shy of thirteen.” 

“Oh, babe...” 

“Shut up. There were others younger.” 

“I know there were.” 

“I’m so, so stupid, Victor. I know there’s something wrong with me. But I can’t make everything shut up.” 

“What happened?” 

“Couldn’t be more moronic. Mycroft took up music one day. On a whim. Started writing it. I’d been playing since I could hold a bow, and it was the one thing I was better at than him. The _one_ thing. But then he wanted that, too. And he just heard it in his head, never even learned how to play an instrument. Just sat on his fucking arse and wrote out pages and pages. And it was... it was as perfect as you could ever imagine. Of course. And he... he’s just such, such a genius, Victor. And his friends did a performance of it. And everyone was saying how marvellous it was, but they were all wrong. I mean, yes, it was beautiful, but they didn’t get it. They didn’t get _why_ it was so perfect- they couldn’t hear it. They would’ve seen a child’s finger-paints and called it a Rembrandt. _I_ could hear it, I understood, and I didn’t even want to.” 

“That doesn’t mean you’re any _less_...” 

“He’s never even cared about music, not like I have, and he just had to go be better at that too! And he knew, he knew when everyone was shouting their dull, dumb praise, he knew I’d want to correct them, he knew I’d have to let them know just _how_ and _why_ he was so fucking bloody perfect. I slipped out of the house instead of giving him that satisfaction. Couldn’t bear to go back home for days. By the time they came to fetch me back, I knew just who to run to, and just how to make it all go wonderfully, _perfectly_ , silent.” 

Victor thanked the darkness for hiding his face, and prayed that Sherlock’s prophecies would be blind to its pain too. 

“Why are you so patient with me, Victor? Why do you even bother with me?” 

“Chalk it up to one of those beautifully rare things you don’t understand.” 

“I’d do anything if you would just give in and call me a fuck-up right now.” 

Victor kissed damp black curls. 

“But you’re not. And you haven’t.”


	38. Eyes and Teeth

###### 1 June 1997

The black-topped roof of the lab radiated heat through Victor and Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock leaned his elbows on the edge and stared at the scurrying students down below. Victor had half his attention on a Swahili crossword. Across the road, two girls were having an apparently hilarious conversation. One of them kept adopting a mocking attitude of solemnity, causing the other to break out into giggles, after which they would both look about in semi-furtiveness.  


“They’re talking about me. I met them last night and now they’re laughing at me,” Sherlock said quietly, dragging on his cigarette. Victor tore his gaze away from his puzzle and looked at the girls.  


“What did you talk with them about?”  


“I was trying to get them to let me into their rooms. They’re overrun with mold and there’s a particular tree outside their window. I wanted to see how the spores and mold reacted with lead paint. They thought I was trying have sex with them, and when they found out I wasn’t.... Well, you can see how they reacted.” 

The first girl aped Sherlock’s glaring intensity with a tilted head peering into the other girl’s face. Sherlock glowered down at them, before his face twisted into an exaggerated imitation of the laughing girl.  


“Ha ha ha! It’s just so _funny_ , isn’t it?” he spat, his voice high and husky like the girl’s.  


“You scared them off. People don’t want to let frightening stone gargoyles into their rooms.”  


“Well of course _you’d_ know. _You_ could get into any girl’s room that you’d care to, couldn’t you?”  


“Yes, I make people like me. You think I don’t work for that?” Victor asked.  


“You just act like you love everyone. Make people think they’re special and they give you anything.”  


“Exactly as you say. Most people want to hate you. They expect that they will. You give them any reason, they’ll run with it. But if you make them forget all that, give them every reason to love you, they’ll give you anything you want. Even a look at the damp in their closets, you strange little thing.”  


“I can’t make people love me. Not like you.”  


“A moment ago your face turned into Cynthia Tratham’s. Her laugh came out of your mouth. Her voice spoke your words. She was standing on this roof with me, with a skinny mustache and ice-blue eyes. You can become her in a minute. Look at all these people down there.”  


Sherlock stared, and Victor grinned, proud.  


“You study their every move, every expression. You know what each of them means. You know why they do the things they do. You know what they want. Couldn’t be easier, darling. Smile when they want you to smile. Cry when they want you to cry. They’ll think you’re one of them. They’ll think you can give them what they want. And they’ll give you whatever you need. They’ll _love_ you.”  


“Act the part, you mean.”  


Victor nodded and laughed.  


“You could be a great actor, dear. Except for the fact that I can’t see you taking direction very well.”  


“So you perform.”  


“We perform.”  


“But people know what I’m like. Whatever part I act, they know that’s not me.”  


“So you flatter them. You think they know you so intimately that they know what is and what isn’t the Real Sherlock Holmes? Let them think that this, the real you, is the performance, and you’ve dropped it: _just for them_.” Sherlock looked Victor up and down.  


“So you. Do you ever really drop it?” he asked.  


Victor exhaled smoke through his smile, and winked.  


“Just for you, sweetheart. Just for you.”


	39. Distillation

###### 10 June 1997

“Mr. Holmes.” 

“Mr. Trevor.” 

“He’s doing wonderfully. Clean. Going to classes.” 

“Is he behaving?” 

“Well enough. His floormates hate him but those who don’t have to live with him actually like him reasonably well. His advisor’s not scared of him anymore, so they’re getting along. Talking about getting him a research assistant’s position. Of course, he’d rather do his own research, but...” 

“Of course. Excellent. I am glad to hear it. I must admit, Mr. Trevor, I had my doubts as to whether your tutelage would continue through to the end of the year, but I am glad that you have proved yourself up to the job.” 

“As am I, sir.” 

“In terms my brother might use himself, he was as an unrefined substance when you and he met. This child was volatile and unstable, and you have been training him into a controlled substance. You are the scientist that will eliminate the background noise, distill and concentrate him.” 

“You speak about Sherlock as if he were a drug.” 

“Is it not appropriate? Within the realms of reality to imagine him as addictive, potentially dangerous?” 

“He’s just a kid, Mr. Holmes.” 

Mycroft laughed. “You are far too intelligent to believe that. You understand that he is capable of greater things. He was born for greater things. That is what you are grooming him for.” 

“First like a drug, and now like a dog,” Victor said under his breath. 

“Pardon me?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Tell me, Trevor, has my brother shown any interest in any of the other students?” 

“Interest? Mostly he just says how awfully dull and conventional they are, though interesting as far as studying a homogenous....” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“You mean romantically interested? No, I can’t say that he is.” 

“What about the faculty? Or anyone else he’s met?” 

“‘Fraid not. No interest whatsoever, as far as I can see.” 

“Hm. I suspected as much. And you, Trevor? I suppose you haven’t changed, still the rogue you always were?” Mycroft asked, with apparent joviality. 

“I am concentrating on my studies,” Victor said. 

“Very diplomatically answered. Well, quite so, you wouldn’t want any little incidents that might burden your father any _further_. Very well, Trevor, your cheque will be arriving before the week is out. Call if anything comes up. I trust that nothing will.” 

Mycroft rung off. Victor stared at the receiver for a few moment with an amused smile. Sherlock came in and threw his books on the desk. 

“They let you back in the lab?” Victor asked, taking in the acid splatter on the cuffs of Sherlock’s shirt. He nodded. 

“And you? That was my brother, wasn’t it?” 

“Someday, that’s who the British government will completely rely on- the rudest prig in England.” Sherlock laughed. 

“What’s it now? He insulting your mothering skills?” 

“Something like that.” 

“Did you tell him what an angel I’m being?” 

“Well, Prometheus, I _didn’t_ tell him you set Musgrave’s hair on fire, if that’s what you mean.” 

“I didn’t see him there! He knew I was testing combustion rates and I was clearly wearing safety goggles, I don’t know why he thought it was a good time to try to be sociable.” But Victor wasn’t scolding. Victor was laughing. 

  


And so it went. The rest of the term passed surprisingly peacefully. When they broke for the summer holidays, Victor took up residence in the Trevor’s flat in town, and, since Sherlock preferred town to country, and Victor’s company to Mycroft’s, they were most often found in each other’s company.


	40. Maps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy weekend!

###### July 1997

_If I were a wise man, I would do my part; Yet what I can I give him: give my heart._

  


The July sun shone in through Victor's bedroom window. A single fan waggled its head ineffectually in the corner of the room. Every ticket seller and cashier and chatty old woman on the bus on his way to Victor’s had thought it necessary to point out that it was, indeed, hot. As if Sherlock was devoid of temperature sensing capabilities and had to be told. Clouds in their head. The heat was the only thing they could think of. Sherlock could almost never think of just one thing. His head was never clouded, nor sluggish, never on holiday.  


So it was strange that at this moment he was happy to allow one thought push all the others aside and fill up his mind. Any other time, he would have tracked down the reason for this exception, but even that consideration seemed dull and unnecessary when compared to letting his head be overwhelmed with one thought. And that thought was Victor. Everything about him. The suntan across his nose. The smell of his detergent (slight hint of lavender). Grey t-shirt and cuffed jeans (rare change from his immaculately pressed suit). The way he moved through a room, his movements never sloppy or superfluous. The music he was always humming (Schubert again today). The way that hum sometimes broke through his parted lips and formed into quiet words that grew louder till he was singing in full (usually when he was doing the washing up). The way he smiled at Sherlock, which wasn't the perfect smile he used on everyone else, but instead was more sudden, like it was a surprise even to Victor, erupting from nothing to fling itself across his lips and cheeks and eyes. His eyes. Long eyelashes. Like a giraffe's. Eyebrow always raised. Sandy brown hair ruffled by the fan. His lips. Red and insolent. Amused. When they kissed, Sherlock could taste his smile. 

The way they only ever kissed.  


"Why are you staring at me, dear?"  


The way he could hardly say a sentence without some term of endearment.  


"I think I'm cataloging you."  


Victor laughed.  


" _I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth_..."  


"Yes."  


"Yes _what_ , you strange little thing?"  


"Yes, you are beautiful."  


Victor sat up and stared at Sherlock, his brow furrowed even with the smile still on his lips.  


"Why now? Why are you looking now?" Victor asked.  


"We've been sleeping in the same bed for almost a year, do you think I didn't notice?"  


The smile faded.  


"Yes. I thought you didn't notice."  


Sherlock uncrossed his legs and slid off of Victor's desk. It only took him two strides and he was next to Victor on the white, crisply made bed, peering at him like a sample under glass.  


"Kiss me."  


Victor smiled and complied. Sherlock tasted the salt from the light sheen of sweat on Victor's upper lip. He tasted the sweet black coffee. He felt the upwards curve of Victor's lips. He felt Victor's hand trace the line of his jaw and felt it hold him at bay as Victor pulled away. He saw Victor’s pupils, grown so large the green was hardly visible.  


"Why not? Why do you always stop there? You have sex with everyone else, why do you only kiss me?"  


His own heart rate. Highly elevated. Victor didn't answer but just pulled Sherlock towards him and tilted his head once more. Sherlock leaned back out of reach.  


"No, tell me."  


"Well, you're not everyone else, are you?"  


The day was not going as Sherlock had predicted. He had to admit he would have never predicted that they would by lying like cats in the sun, that he would let himself become breathless, that Victor would have ( _finally_ ) not stopped his hands from pulling Sherlock closer, that he would find out that he was correct in thinking that if he licked the skin at the base of Victor's ear, Victor would shudder violently and raise his eyes to the ceiling. That he himself would not be able to control the sound that came out of his throat when Victor kissed the insides of his wrists. That Victor would not smile, but grow utterly serious. He knew that Victor must have been good at making people feel good in bed, anyone could see that from the way people who'd been with him looked at him. He hadn’t thought that today he was going to become one of those people. He never before observed how much Victor loved Sherlock’s hands, but he did now as Victor pressed them to his lips.  


Victor moved slowly, rhythmically inside Sherlock. A bead of sweat hung at the tip of his nose, and fell onto Sherlock’s collarbone. Victor traced Sherlock’s top lip with one finger. So red, such sharp upward points ( _and so soft when he buried his own into them_ ). Sherlock had never felt so weak and so strong at the same time. He knew precisely which chemicals were being released in precisely which part of his brain, he knew which hormones were signalling and which neurons were firing, and there were so many that he thought it would be like screaming in his head but instead, when he came and Victor's nails dug into his shoulder and they were both drenched in sweat and spit and cum, it was the cleanest silence that flooded his mind.  


"You know, due to the atomic electrical repulsion, you can't ever actually touch anything or anyone. There's always an infinitely small space in between," Sherlock said. His hands were buried in Victor's hair and he wished he could dissolve that infinitesimal barrier between them.  


"Fuck your electrons and fuck repulsion," Victor said, "You're a chemist, not a physicist, and I say I'm touching you." He ran the tip of his tongue along the curve of Sherlock's ear, and with that, Sherlock threw away the knowledge about electrical repulsion and never thought of it again.

  


He knew he should have been grateful. Victor had showed him so much, had given him so much. He knew he should have been stunned by his charm, by the the ease and grace which was so foreign to him. He should have been blinded by Victor’s beauty, let it saturate his eyes and then his mind and then his heart. But his heart was hard to reach, and these things did not touch it. Neither gratitude, nor admiration, not desire touched his heart. He felt these things to some extent, but they did not make him love Victor.  


But _something_ made him love Victor. He did, didn’t he? Everyone loved Victor. How could one not. But they loved him for the idiot reasons, for the reason a child loves a toy or a hero in a fairy tale. They did not love Victor like Sherlock loved Victor. Singular, close, and quiet. They did not see Victor like Sherlock saw Victor. Not like a star, but like a map. Like a mirror. The only other person in a world full of puppets. That must have been love, wasn’t it?

  


Sherlock drew a map of his own body in his mind like a plot of heat and cold. Cold where the water from the shower had not dried, where it ran from his hair down his neck in little chills, cold in a handprint on his ribs because Victor had just moved. Warm on his right hip, where Victor had just placed his hand. Warm on the right side of his face, where he could feel Victor’s breathing. Right side warm: body pressed against body. Left side cool: no more sun, just moonlight, and sheets in disarray, pushed down to the foot of the bed.  


Outside in the hallway a clock was chiming midnight. It was three minutes off. Sherlock turned over onto his right side. His left knee was cold so he slid it under Victor’s leg and counted to one hundred and eighty.  


“Happy birthday,” he whispered. Victor stirred sleepily and gave Sherlock a slow kiss.  


Victor could feel, could almost taste, Sherlock’s smile under his own lips.


	41. Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (TW for slut shaming)

###### 2 Aug 1997

Their mother’s birthday. Light summer suits. Mycroft brought pearls, Sherlock brought azaleas. 

“Flowers, Sherlock? Really.” 

“Yes, _really_. She likes painting them and Mr. Jenkins can’t manage to grow them. He won’t listen to me when I tell him about the soil and taking out the holly.” 

“How quaint. I’m sure she’ll think that’s just precious.” 

“Shut up, Mycroft. You’re just pissed that I know her better.” Sherlock rolled the window open a crack and let the air ruffle his hair. It was easier than ever to pretend his brother wasn’t there. He’d be glad to see his mother, but he was already counting off how long till he’d be back in London. With the quiet that came with Victor, even in a crowd of a thousand. Left this morning with Victor playing Chopin on the upright. 

It had rained the night before, and the sun reflected sharply off the still-wet streets and the shining black of their car. For a while they listened to the sound of the car driving through the puddles. 

Mycroft tapped on the divider and had their driver turn on the radio. Ravel. Mycroft leaned back into the leather seat and, with a smile that bordered on conspiratorial, winked at Sherlock. 

“You’ve had your fill of Schubert, after all. I’ve been meaning to congratulate you all morning. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

The car stank with flowery sweetness and rain and soap and leather. It was much too hot and the air rushing through the window made his damp brow clammy. Blood turned the paleness red in between each of his freckles. 

“What the hell are you on about?” 

“Come now, dear, I’d have to be an idiot not to notice. Do you think I couldn’t tell?” Mycroft said, satisfied, eyes gleaming, “Finally made a man of you. Little over two weeks ago, I’d say. Took him long enough. Began to think the problem wasn’t just with you.” He clapped a hand down hard on Sherlock’s shoulder; he could feel the heat of it on his neck and twisted away. 

“Oh, come now, don’t be squeamish, little brother. Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s what normal people do. I only hope that Mr. Trevor is still as imaginative and vigorous as he was when I enjoyed his company. Well, that’s cleared up. Couldn’t figure out which way you swung- that is, if you swung at all. I’ll have to send him a bonus this month, I suppose.” 

Sherlock shook his head but Mycroft ignored the stricken expression on his face. 

“You couldn’t tell I’d set you two up? Ah. Well, you never were the most focused. I suppose infatuation must blind many eyes. I see yours are not an exception. Want to know how I knew?” 

“Mycroft... stop.” 

“You didn’t even have to say a word. I knew as soon as you got into this car.” 

“I said, stop it. Shut up.” 

“I know where you went for dinner last night, you think I couldn’t tell that you weren’t a virgin anymore?” 

“Fucking hell, Mycroft, shut up!” Sherlock shouted. Shoved the flowers into the gloating smug face. Smashed fuchsia petals fell back on him as Mycroft grabbed his wrists and threw him to the other side of the seats. Sherlock’s hands were shaking but he managed to unlock the door and push it open. Their driver didn’t realize what had happened at first and took a moment to screech to a halt. Sherlock was already out of the car and walking quickly away. 

“Are you really so surprised? Why do you think I hired him, moron?” Mycroft yelled after him.  


  


Victor hadn’t expected him back before the weekend. Hadn’t expected him to refuse to meet his eyes, or pull away from his touch. 

“Sherlock, just tell me what happened!” 

He hadn’t expected Sherlock to look at him, seething, and say, “I thought you were clever. You figure it out.” Victor watched as Sherlock gathered the things he’d left there and shoved them in his bag. 

“You can’t have made it past Watford. Your father wouldn’t have been there. Must have been Mycroft. What did he do, dear? Why are you so furious at me?” 

Sherlock felt the pressure in his sinuses and the tingling in his eyes. No. Don’t take their bait. He pushed the biggest, most magnanimous smile he could onto his face, and directed it at Victor. 

“Your employer’s just pleased with your job performance. He’ll be sending you a bonus. Should’ve fucked me months ago, Victor, what were you waiting for? We could have used the cash back in December.” 

Victor’s face was blank. 

“He told you that he’s been paying me to....” 

“He hired, you, Victor!” Sherlock couldn’t keep back his anger anymore, “He hired you to make me normal and respectable, just like him! _Exactly_ like him, down to who I’m shagging. Just like him, just a bit less clever, that’s it, because I was so thick that I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t fucking see it, but it was right in front of me- you’re just being paid, that’s all, you never even denied it. This is all your fucking job, I’m your damned paycheque!” 

“Sherlock, are you mad? Are you joking? How did he even know?” 

“How do you _think_ he knew?” 

“I told him nothing, I haven’t even talked to him for weeks!” 

“Oh, don’t tell me you weren’t _going_ to tell him. Cos all this other business- keeping me clean, keeping me quiet, that’s not the real job is it- it was this. Cos he couldn’t stand not knowing, could he? Couldn’t bear that there was something he wasn’t sure about. You were his bait, and I took it without a second thought. Don’t tell me you weren’t going to tell him.” 

“Sherlock, listen, I would _never_...” 

“You take money to break in little inexperienced weirdos. You’re a whore, Victor, don’t tell me you’d have passed up your reward.” 

Victor’s face. Still blank. Slight tightness in the jaw. Maybe a little white. Surprise at being found out, most likely, didn’t think Mycroft would have told, that’s it. Sherlock slammed the door behind himself. 

A few hours later and many miles away, Mycroft heard an upstairs door bang shut. It didn’t open till the weekend was over and Mycroft was gone. And so it went. The boy stayed on the family estate the rest of the summer, till the term began again.


	42. Cross Words

###### 21 October 2010

John had brought his C.V. to the lab to update it while Sherlock was working, but there were no tricks left to explain the lack of long-term post-army employment. Couldn’t very well put down ‘Handler and Moon-Eyed Admirer of Consulting Detective,” could he? 

He could see his face and Sherlock’s at the same time. Sherlock’s, at work at the other bench, and his own, reflected in the glass of the fume hood. The dim fluorescent light cut shadows into both their faces, but his were from early wrinkles and Sherlock’s were from bone structure. If he squinted he could imagine what Sherlock’s skull looked like. But that definitely fell under ‘Things He Should Probably Stop Doing.’ 

He opened up an online crossword. 

“Aglet,” Sherlock said, without looking up. 

“What?” 

“Five letters, beginning with ‘A’. You’re wearing loafers, but you started staring at mine, which have laces...” 

“Yes, alright, I would have figured it out myself...” 

“No, you wouldn’t. You were going to write ‘repetition’ instead of ‘tessellate,’ which would put an ‘R’ in the last place where it should be a ‘T.’” 

“I’m not... I’m not even going to ask.” Clicked out of the damn crossword. 

“You haven’t finished telling me about the Trevors.” 

Sherlock shifted his eyes away from the lens of the microscope. 

“John, I’m busy.” 

“Don’t look so affronted, no you’re not busy. The only thing you’re ‘busy’ with is beating me at the crossword from across the room.” 

“Hardly took one percent of my attention...” 

“What did that bonkers letter mean? ‘Houston, we have a problem, and it’s Jesus?’” 

“That’s not what it said.” 

“I know, it’s... from _Apollo 13_?” 

“What? Why?” 

“It’s a film. It’s a film and I know you’ve seen it, you mentioned it once...” 

“Why are you talking about _Apollo 13_?” 

“It was a jo- oh, never mind. What did that bloody letter mean?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, and John rolled his eyes and gave it up as a lost cause. But in the cab home, Sherlock suddenly continued the story, beginning again without introduction, as if he’d just been talking about it. John couldn’t help feeling a little pleased with himself that the abruptness failed to catch him off-guard anymore. 

“In the second year of university, we were both much busier with our own fields of study. That was the year- I told you I dropped out, didn’t I?” 

“No, Mycroft told me that. You told me you were kicked out of Eton. And before that, Westminster.” 

“‘Manners maketh man,’ my arse.” 

“Blew up the chem lab or something?” 

“Erm, no, actually- but anyway, that was the year I dropped out. I was about to be sent down anyway, I’d almost been earlier that year, and it was only a matter of time at that point. Mycroft was horrified, of course.” John saw the hint of a twitch at his lips that showed that he had been pleased about that. 

“After I left uni, I travelled around a fair bit. The contacts I made in those years provided the foundation for my career.” 

“I thought the foundation for your career was Trevor’s dad.” 

“A foundation’s usually more than one stone, John. The information I gathered after leaving was infinitely more than I could have gained at school.” 

“Is that why you left?” 

“Yes, basically. Why are you so anxious to hear about my academic failings?” he snapped. John knew he was prying more than he usually would. 

“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I had pretty average grades in most of my subjects. But even your most massive cock-ups were probably more impressive than if I’d been the star pupil,” he said, by way of atonement. It seemed to work. 

“Not necessarily. You may be a bit of an idiot sometimes, but I’d never say you were unimpressive,” Sherlock said, calmer.


	43. Split the Fee

###### 7 Aug 1997

Dear Sherlock, 

If you don’t believe me, you don’t believe me, but I’m hoping you allow yourself to be logical as well as emotional, and allow _me_ to explain myself. 

I never knew that was your brother’s plan. I promise, I never did. And I wish I could say that if I had known, I would not have taken the job, but I won’t lie to you. Your brother pays too well to have that kind of pride, and I have never considered sex nor money to be shameful. Without even knowing you, I doubt I would have thought twice about it before accepting. 

But I know you now and I would never intentionally do anything to hurt you. I swear, darling, your brother never told me that was part of the job. And think about how I feel. I don’t like it any more than you do. One brother uses me unwittingly as a litmus test of his own brother’s sexuality, leading that brother- the one who _matters_ \- to call me all sorts of lovely epithets to illustrate the level of descent in his estimation. 

I don’t blame you for your words. You were angry. And rightfully so. I am too. 

I am not so innocent in the world as to believe that to refuse your brother’s backing now will somehow shame or chastise him. He won’t care. What good will it do either of us to believe in the symbolic pride of living without his material help? Giving up his backing would mean I would have to leave school. It would mean I have to leave you. I won’t do that. 

I will continue to accept his financial patronage and, if you permit me, share it with you. I won’t be his spy. I refuse to be his lackey. But he doesn’t have to know that. 

All my love, 

Victor


	44. Advantage

###### 20 Sept 1997

“ _You_ must live within the world, little brother. You must experience it. You have trouble understanding things you have never encountered. You are a scientist, and you can’t draw conclusions without gathering data. What is it you used to say- you can’t make bricks without clay. You must understand, my dear, it is only because I am concerned for you that I have made efforts to ensure that you experience the world and are protected whilst doing so.” 

Sherlock’s end of the receiver had been silent throughout the whole conversation. Mycroft sighed and went on, “I wanted you to learn from him. I never intended you to care for him. Love handicaps the best of us, and it is never to be trusted. Even if he loves you now, Sherlock, we are not like other people. Do you think he will be there for you forever? You can see the answer; you are not a fool. I want to protect you. Trust will _not_ protect you.” 

“And _you_ will?” 

“I am the only one who knows you well enough to be able to.” 

“No, Mycroft. You know nothing.” The receiver clanged against its cradle, and the coin dropped. He wandered back to his room. He was the first to arrive. 

When the lights flicked on, he’d been standing unmoving in the centre of the room for fifty-seven minutes. He turned to Victor, who stood in the doorway with a bag slung over his shoulder and bags under his eyes, with a smile that was 75 percent genuine. Victor’s, in reply, was only 10 percent forced. 

“Sherlock. You don’t hate me.” 

“Don’t be an idiot, Victor. I got your letter. Of course I don’t hate you.” 

“Well, you didn’t reply...” Sherlock cut him off. 

“I don’t do a lot of things. Writing. Writing’s boring...” It was Victor who cut him off this time. Stopped his mouth with a kiss. Sherlock reciprocated. At least, until Victor’s fingers went to Sherlock’s belt. Sherlock took the other boy’s wrists and pushed them away. Gently, but unmistakably _away_. Victor backed off immediately. 

“I missed you, dear.” 

“Did you bring the coffee? I haven’t been shopping and there’s nothing in.” 

Victor rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen, but without any bad humour. 

Sherlock went into Victor’s bag and rummaged through it, finally finding his tobacco. 

“My brother still sending you money?” 

“Yes. I managed to convince him that I would still be material use to you, but he’s not getting any more information out of me. I promise.” He leaned around the doorframe, “You trust me, don’t you?” 

“I believe you. The window’s stuck again, by they way, do you think they fixed the smoke alarm in here or am I going to have to disconnect it again?” he asked, lighting his cigarette. Victor came out of the kitchen, grabbed the boy by his collar and marched him, laughing, out of the room and into the open air.


	45. Disadvantage

###### 26 Sept 1997

Victor saw the next week as a fresh start. Meeting each other again, almost, with open hearts and wiser eyes. Starts were always rough, especially if you knew it was a second chance. Sherlock seemed to have re-directed all his anger at his brother, which Victor couldn’t help but seconding. Still, he wasn’t as vitriolic as Victor had expected. Sherlock looked tired, a little sad if anything. Not ready to wage war or raise hell. Victor reminded him that giving Mycroft the satisfaction of having broken him was just as inexcusable as rising to the challenge when others were baiting him. 

“Don’t let them know they’ve got you down. We perform,” he told him, fixing his tie and straightening his collar for him. It had been a minor struggle getting him to go to his classes, even though they were much more interesting this term than last. 

“I’m not like you, though, Victor. It’s not that easy.” 

“No, it’s not. If it was easy then it wouldn’t be a performance, it would just be true.” He kissed his cheek and pushed him out the door. 

That night, like every night since the start of term, they stayed in the common room while the rest of the floor was at supper. Sherlock had procured a few Fosters and had disabled the smoke detector ( _temporarily_ , this time, on Victor’s insistence), so they could smoke inside instead of going out in the unseasonable cold. 

“How did today go?” 

“Well enough. I’ve got Professor Bechdel again and you know I’ve never been able to pass any of her exams. And Professor Koenig kept insisting I looked poorly.” Sherlock broke the tab off the top of his can. 

“You’re right. If you let them see you down, they’ll pounce. Or worse, they’ll pity you. I won’t let that happen. What about you?” 

“I’m going to have to spend this whole term in the library.” 

“Mmm, don’t pretend you’re not overjoyed.” 

“Not one of your most difficult observations, I believe.” 

Sherlock laughed a little, and just like every time he did, it caused Victor to experience the very rare sensation of feeling out of control. He couldn’t control the rising feeling in his chest and the smile that broke across his face whether he wanted it to or not. To hell with moderation, it whispered, and he couldn’t help enjoying the way it felt to fall. _When it’s not a performance, it’s easy_. 

It was easy but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Oh, no words for how much. He swallowed, wishing he could speak lightly, and knew that there could be no hiding from Sherlock the fact that he’d broken him. 

“So. I’m in love with you.” 

Sherlock nodded slightly. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought it might,” Sherlock said quietly. 

Hypothesis testing. Of course. Victor laughed, short and unhappy. 

“Well, someone has to. If I don’t love you, who will?” he said. 

Sherlock got up quickly and went to the window, which he’d pried open a few days before, and dangled his cigarette hand out of it. A few students were beginning to come out from supper and cross the dusky square. Sebastian came in and went straight for the fridge, ignoring the two of them except for a minor exhalation to signal his annoyance. Victor moved to leave, and Sherlock glanced over in his direction. 

“Sorry,” he said casually, moments before the door shut behind Victor. Sebastian, mistaking the words as meant for himself, glared at Sherlock. 

“What’re you sorry for?” 

Sherlock flashed him an unconcerned grin. 

“Sorry I drank your beers.” 

Sebastian flung open the fridge door again and swore. Looking back at Sherlock’s grin, he rolled his eyes. 

“No you’re fucking not. Freak.”


	46. Tricks

###### 3 October 1997

“Oh, bloody hell, the little weirdo’s here,” Freddie moaned as he threw his jacket over a chair. 

“It’s fine, Smythe, he’s listening to his music, he won’t even know we were here.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Sure. He turns the volume up so high that can’t hear a thing through those headphones, watch.” Sebastian turned his back to Sherlock and raised his voice, “Holmes, care for a cuppa? No? Would you do me a favor and tell me everywhere I’ve been earlier today? Oh, not in the mood are you? Well, how about I take your damn violin and break it over my knee, would you like that?” 

Sherlock didn’t even look over from where he was huddled in a corner of the common room, and the other boys laughed. 

“See, I told you. Can’t hear a thing.” 

“That’s a mercy. I’ve had enough of him for a lifetime,” sneered Pritchards. 

“Well, I can’t imagine he’ll last long here, either, it’s just a matter of time.” 

“Pray tell.” 

“You know why he was sent down _twice_ before, don’t you? Sinclair was at Eton with him and told me everything. He’d been sent away from Westminster before because he was just as nosy and annoying as he is now, but they didn’t stand for it there and he got beaten to a pulp! They _had_ to move him for his own safety!” Sebastian divulged. He went on, amid the snickering, “And then he has an enormous drug problem, you know? Stems all the way from his childhood.” 

“Yes, I heard that he was snorting morphine when he was 12 years old.” 

“You don’t snort morphine, Babcocke, you shoot it.” 

“You can do either!” 

“If I didn’t hide my supply I know he’d steal every last gram,” said Sebastian. 

“He would, you know! He doesn’t get a penny direct from his family, they don’t trust him with it. Trevor’s in charge of giving him his allowance,” Varnham added. 

“Trevor? What does he have to do with it?” 

“Oh, you don’t know? He’s not actually his _friend_. He’d been _hired_! He’s his bodyguard, basically.” 

“His _bodyguard_?” 

“Or his nanny.” 

“Good lord. That makes so much sense.” 

“I thought it must have been something like that. Trevor’s basically a good sort, he wouldn’t have given the little freak the time of day if he hadn’t been made to.” 

“Why is he lying on the floor like that? He’s such a tosser, I don’t fucking understand how he gets invited everywhere.” 

“Shock value. If you knew a two-headed woman, wouldn’t you want her at your party? Come on, he won’t be at Ashworth’s tonight, he’s been banned.” 

“I’m game.” 

“I can’t help but wonder what time will make of the little creep.” 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? With all his tricks? He’ll be a carnival act.” 

Sebastian’s last statement incited uproarious laughter. After they bustled out of the room, Sherlock stayed where he was for a few minutes, eyes closed. He fingered the plug at the end of the cord on the headphones, which was tucked inside his jacket pocket. It was not connected to anything. Rolled over, onto his back. Then he jumped to his feet and went to Sebastian’s room, easily picking the lock. Sebastian couldn’t have done his own laundry if he’d had a gun to his head, so in the box of laundry detergent under the bed, Sherlock found just what he was looking for. A grin spread across his face.


	47. Most Royal Imp of Fame

###### 4 Oct 1997

“He’s not here.” 

Victor stared at the unmade bed, trying to determine how many nights it had been empty, and vaguely heard Sebastian behind him. 

“We all assumed he was with you. Lost him, have you?” 

But he wasn’t with Victor. He wasn’t at the lab, although there was a scattering of half-started experiments left on the bench, and Sherlock’s chemistry professor rolled her eyes at Victor and said Victor could tell him that she wasn’t going to clean it up for him. He wasn’t at the library. He wasn’t at the pub. 

Victor found him at the gym. Working the heavy bag. Sherlock grinned at Victor. 

“Darling, I haven’t seen you for days, where’ve you been?” Victor asked. 

“Been busy,” was the slightly breathless answer. 

“You alright?” 

“I’m wonderful, actually. Haven’t felt so good in a while. Getting things done, finally, now that I’ve got the energy for it.” 

“That’s fantastic. Tell me about it. And I never actually did ask how the rest of your summer went.” 

Sherlock gave the bag a break and tore off his right glove. 

“Pass me the fags, would you.” 

Victor complied after a moment’s hesitation. Sherlock lit one and tossed the pack back. 

“I thought you were trying to cut back.” 

“In _July_. That was a long fucking time ago. Leave off, will you?” Sherlock snapped. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean....” 

“No, that was me. It’s fine. Doesn’t matter. Sorry. How’s your father, Victor? Hope he’s well. Did you go back to Norfolk before school? No wait! Don’t tell me. I want to figure it out myself.” 

Victor laughed, “Why? Feeling out of practice?” 

“Intimacy is the dust in my eye. I can read people better at a distance; get too close and I can’t see them anymore.” 

“So… you don’t let them get close to you?” Victor asked, a shade too quietly. Sherlock scoffed and waved it off. 

“Well, they don’t, do they? That’s hardly difficult. Usually. You, though. I’m too close to you. I can’t see you anymore.” 

“I’m flattered.” 

“I can still do it though, don’t think I can’t. The rest of your holiday. You... spent the majority of time in London (your barbers are distinctly different). You did, however, spend a little over a week at your family home...” With his free hand he tugged up Victor’s shirtsleeve, “No, scratch that, two weeks. How nice. And since you clearly went to see my brother before the term began, do you know when he’s sending your next cheque? There are a few CDs I need to buy. And a new radio, the wiring’s shot on mine.” 

“It should be arriving tomorrow, actually...” 

“Whatever, just let me know when it arrives and be sure to get some cash out. Were the others in when you checked my floor? I’m working on a new composition and I don’t want them bothering me.” 

“Yes, Sebastian was-” 

“Victor.” Sherlock pulled his vest on and gripped Victor by the arm, staring unblinkingly into his eyes, “You know how glad I am you’re here, don’t you? I don’t tell you, I suppose. But I don’t know where I’d be if it wasn’t for you. Thank you.” He pulled Victor towards him and kissed him hard on the temple. 

“I imagine I’ll see you later,” he said as he left the gym. Victor took a few seconds to take all that in, and still rather puzzled, he made his way to the library.

  


“You bent little junkie thief!” The shouted epithet reverberated against the stones. 

Helena and Freddie stood a yard or so behind Sebastian, and behind them crowd was quickly ringing around the people in the center. Like zones of inhibition around penicillin tabs in the agar plates Sherlock lifted from the lab. 

It was a grey morning among the grey stones and under the stormy grey sky, but a streak of blackish-red was dashed across Sherlock’s pale face, dripping from his nose, over his lips to run in rivulets down his throat. The boy was smiling at Sebastian, and the blood had run into his mouth, making his teeth look as if he’d just feasted on raw flesh. Sebastian was still shouting. Rolling up his sleeves. Something had been stolen. Sherlock calmly pushed the hair out of his eyes, the brash jeer never faltering. 

“Are you going to call your boyfriend to save you, twerp?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sized Sebastian up. 

“Well he’s hardly my boyfriend, and that’s hardly the most original insult you could have come up with. But I suppose originality isn’t something you’re overly concerned with in economics, are you?” 

“I’ve had it with your lip, Holmes.” 

Sherlock raised his fists and countered Sebastian’s circle. It was only then that the din around the two boys grew loud enough to reach Victor coming back from the library on the other side of the square. He threw his books into his room through his open window and sprinted across the square. When he reached the courtyard outside Sherlock and Sebastian’s hall, he was just in time to see a fist collide first into the soft skin of the stomach and then heavily, crunchingly, to the lowest point of the jaw. Bright smears of blood splashed across both boys’ white shirts. 

Sebastian’s body thudded to the ground and the ring of students let out their collectively held breaths in sighs, moans, or cheers. Victor ploughed through them and helped Sebastian sit up. He was blinking and dizzy but wasn’t knocked out, and he pushed Victor away. 

Sherlock stood straight and proud, with a little of his brother’s smugness on his face. Surrounding him were students congratulating him, some of them eyeing him with undisguised lust. Victor’s stomach turned. 

“You put up with Sebastian’s shit long enough, I would have snapped ages ago,” someone was saying, “Come round to ours tonight, we’re going out and you should join us.” Victor broke through the admirers. Didn’t touch him, didn’t pull him along with him, just whispered briefly in his ear. 

“ _Home. Now_.” He turned to leave, and from behind him came Sherlock’s mocking voice. 

“Or what, dear? Or you’ll call my big brother? He’d be pleased. Isn’t this just what he wanted for me?” 

Victor looked back. Sherlock was basking in the attention.They weren’t looking at him like a freak. Someone shoved into Victor’s shoulder in their attempt to get closer to the action and find out what had happened. Then they blocked Sherlock out of Victor’s sight. And then security showed up and everyone scattered. 

Back in his rooms, alone, Victor gathered the books from the floor where they’d fallen. He wondered if he would still be living in these halls by the time of his next exams. Looked at the book in his hand. _Henry IV, Part II_. It was only then that he noticed his hand shaking.

  


“ _I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;_

_How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!”_

  


Sherlock still wasn’t back in his rooms by 2 am. The call to search Sherlock’s quarters came a whole three days later. The common area was searched, too. Not all of the drugs belonged to Sherlock, some of them were actually Sebastian’s. But Sherlock was the one who had already had marks against him. Already had had strings pulled to get him in there, and now those strings were fraying threads. 

Victor heard about it from another student after his morning lecture. Luckily, he’d stayed up the night before finishing all his papers. He neatly placed them in the letterboxes of each of the professors they went to. Went back to his rooms and put on his best suit. Sherlock was already on the wooden bench outside the Proctor’s office. Clearly hadn’t been to sleep in a while. Dark circles under heavy-lidded eyes. Shivering. Fingers twitching. He grasped Victor’s hand, a little wild thing. 

“Victor, I blew it. They found everything…” 

Victor winked at him and got close enough to straighten his lapels. 

“Are you going to try to get clean now?” he asked, so only Sherlock could hear. 

“Yes, I promise, I’ll try. I promise.” 

“Second chances are always rough, aren’t they? I love you, you little shit,” he whispered. 

The assistant, a pretty young thing with auburn hair, came out to call Sherlock, but Victor walked in in his place. 

Once he’d claimed that all the drugs were his, and that he’d been keeping them in Sherlock’s quarters without his knowledge, a few other students from those quarters were called. They attested that Victor and Sherlock usually used each other’s rooms interchangeably. When asked if there were any other known or suspected drug users on that floor, one Sebastian Wilkes denied knowledge of any. Shook his head ‘no’ and looked over at Victor Trevor with something like respect. The proceedings were rushed through, since Victor did not appeal their decision. On his way out, a sleek black car appeared as if from thin air, revealing the elder Holmes brother from behind a tinted window. 

“Sent down? What a shame, Mr. Trevor.” 

“You couldn’t fucking leave it, could you, Mycroft? It was you who called in that tip. You knew just what would happen. You know who’s fault this is really, don’t you.” 

“My dear, if you will insist on being predictable, you must expect your actions to be predicted. Be at my offices at nine o’clock in the morning this Saturday to discuss the conclusion of your employment.” The window buzzed shut and the car slid away, shining like petrol on water.


	48. Playlist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a real chapter, but in case you wanted to hear what I'm using as my own soundtrack.

Hey everyone! I wanted to publish this in case anyone else was interested- it's the playlist I use when I'm writing this fic. It's incredibly long, so there's one link for the whole playlist and then an individual track listing with links. A lot of it is standard Sherlock music (F+tM, Little Lion Man...) but I think some of the others are interesting and less used. Anyway, here it is and I hope you enjoy it. :)

Link to my tumblr which has links to all of these and the whole playlist:

<http://queertrees.tumblr.com/post/64966524569/falling-flying-all-my-love-on-paper-planes>

PART 1 (Chapters 1-49)

Trouble is a Friend Lenka ~ Kiss Kiss Yeah Yeah Yeahs ~ Heroin The Velvet Underground ~ Blue Veins The Raconteurs ~ Marche Slave Tchaikovsky ~ Steady as She Goes The Raconteurs ~ Overture to Candide Leonard Bernstein ~ Op. 38 No. 6 (Duetto) Mendelssohn ~ Good Gone Girl Mika ~ Everybody Talks Neon Trees ~ Little Talks Of Monster and Men ~ Venus in Furs The Velvet Underground ~ By The Time Mika ~ Serenade for Strings in C major, Op. 48 Tchaikovsky ~ Wexford Carol Traditional/Craig Duncan ~ Want You So Bad I Can’t Breathe Ok Go ~ Bedroom Hymns Florence and the Machine ~ I See You Mika ~ Dr. John Mika ~ Dirty Old Town The Pogues ~ I’m a Fool to Want You Billie Holiday ~ I Don’t feel Like Dancing Scissor Sisters ~ Use Somebody Kings of Leon ~ One and Only Adele ~ Maps Yeah Yeah Yeahs ~ Perfect Day Lou Reed ~ No Light, No Light Florence and the Machine ~ Falling Florence and the Machine ~ Little Lion Man Mumford and Sons ~ Pale Blue Eyes The Velvet Underground ~ Love, Love, Love Of Monsters and Men ~ Trouble is a Friend of Mine (acoustic) Lenka ~ Andy You’re a Star The Killers

PART 2 (Chapters 48-End *I don't think you'll be spoiled but these chapters aren't published yet*)

Intermission Scissor Sisters ~ I Can’t Decide Scissor Sisters ~ Toy Boy Mika ~ You Know I’m No Good Amy Winehouse ~ Like a Song Lenka ~ Just Might Tell You Tonight Scissor Sisters ~ Valerie Amy Winehouse/Mark Ronson ~ La Mer Julio Iglesias ~ Love the Way You Lie Skylar Grey ~ Black Angel’s Death Song The Velvet Underground ~ God’s Gonna Cut You Down Johnny Cash ~ Gnossienne No. 1, 2, 3 Erik Satie ~ In the Bleak Midwinter Christina Rossetti/Gloucester Cathedral Choir ~ Wexford Carol Traditional/The Palestrina Choir ~ Love Came Down at Christmas Christina Rossetti/King's Choir, Cambridge ~ Holy Johnny Mika ~ Hallelujah Jeff Buckley ~ Somebody That I Used to Know Gotye ~ Feelin Good Nina Simone ~ Mr. Brightside The Killers ~ Take It All Adele ~ Creep Carrie Manolakos ~ Skinny Love Birdy ~ Sinnerman Nina Simone ~ Happy Ending Mika ~ Lilac Wine Jeff Buckley ~ The Same Song Susheela Raman ~ Breaking Down Florence and the Machine ~ Wish You Love Rachel Yamagata ~ All this and Heaven Too Florence and the Machine

 

 


	49. Spells and Other Broken Things

###### 11 Oct 1997

“When I knew you, Mr. Trevor, you were the very soul of wit, vivacity, and easy charm. Now your feathers are unpreened and easily ruffled. This is what an extended period with my little brother will do, I’m afraid. Even the brightest facade begins to ...” A slight smile twitched at Mycroft’s lips, without dispelling the glare from his eyes, “... crack. He seems to have quite stolen the sweet bloom of youth from you. _Dear_.” 

Victor’s voice was steady but heated, “Mycroft, is it utterly impossible for you to speak without pretense? This isn’t about me. This is about your brother, who I (God help me) thought you were actually concerned about. But you couldn’t care less for Sherlock himself, could you? It’s your precious reputation you’re concerned about, the family name, your own bloody career opportunities! There hasn’t been one moment in that boy’s life when he wasn’t made to feel like something foul and freakish. A mistake. An embarrassment. When has he ever felt like- no, _known_ that he is, instead, something wonderful? A gift? Cos let me tell you something, Mycroft Holmes, I don’t care if _Sherlock_ , if _you_ , if your _bosses_ all think _you’re_ the clever one, because it’s _Sherlock_ who’s not only different but _better_. And you’ll do anything to keep the world from knowing that.” 

From the other side of the heavy wooden door, Sherlock couldn’t hear every word, but he could hear the sharp, sudden sound of skin on skin, followed by a dull thud. He knew that sound. Mycroft had slapped Victor hard enough to knock him to the floor. 

“Mr. Trevor, in a few years, I will be in a fortunate position which will allow me to never have to dirty my own hands like that again, but will instead have many hands at my disposal to remind others of their place. And your place is as the dandy son of a … tragically fallen family,” Mycroft said softly, “You are now free of my employ, and I will request you to quit my brother’s company immediately. Your influence has not been improving to him.” 

Sherlock heard Victor stand up and walk to the door. When his hand was on the doorknob, Mycroft spoke again. 

“Mr. Trevor, you have shown me that _some_ family names are worth preserving, while others are not.” 

Victor flung open the door. 

“Thank God for that,” Sherlock heard Victor say. He was hiding behind a bookcase but Victor walked over to it like he’d known all along who he would find there. 

“And with that, the magic curse is broken and I am no longer beholden to the evil fairy,” he said. He was grinning, a little wildly. But through the anger, Sherlock saw… relief. Victor grabbed Sherlock’s face and kissed him, hard. He was not expecting Sherlock’s spine to stiffen, or for his jaw to remain locked, or for his eyes to turn anywhere but to meet Victor’s. Victor pulled away slowly and nodded, still smiling, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look for what else it held. 

“It doesn’t matter, you know. If he had a whole army of spies and government henchmen, they couldn’t keep me away from you. He can’t get rid of me that easily. And you won’t have to be afraid of him anymore. He doesn’t own you.” He kissed the tips of his own fingers and touched them to the inside of Sherlock’s hand. 

“What will you do now?” 

Victor shrugged, “What I always do. I make people like me. I survive.” 

In a moment they both turned to watch Mycroft come into the doorway to significantly clear his throat. Sherlock wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead he stepped out from his half-concealment behind the bookcase and flashed his brother his brightest, biggest smile. 

“Always a pleasure, brother dear,” he said. He walked out of the front door with Victor two steps behind.


	50. Same Old Safe Bet

###### 10 April 1998

He did try. He did, didn’t he? The answer lay behind a door in his mind that he refused to open. But he thought he did try. Top of his classes, finally. Beyond the top. Could have taught them. Could’ve rewritten them. For months, it was like that. Hardly slept for all the studying he did. Slept in the lab more nights than not. Added advantage of avoiding Sebastian. The two of them had gone back to their mutual shunning, which was more successful in Sherlock’s mind than in Sebastian’s- but if he only knew how many times he _did_ keep his mouth shut! 

And then it was spring, and the world seemed smaller than a petri dish. Boxing was boring. Fencing was dull. They’d threatened to call the police on him for screaming, when he wanted to test the limits of his vocal range and it just happened to be four in the morning. There was a thought in a corner of his mind that told him he knew how to calm himself down; he knew how to make himself fall in love with his brain again. 

He did try to ignore it, and he carried a coin in his pocket for a week, telling himself to just ring Victor. 

But in the end he told himself he’d bothered Victor enough with this specific problem, and that it would be kinder to simply not let him know. He dropped the coin in the payphone and dialed a number he knew by heart. Didn’t have enough money to pay, so he wrote up a comparative analysis of _Don Quixote_ and _King Lear_ for the other boy’s half-term paper in exchange for three little plastic baggies. 

Only a few of his teachers were surprised when he stopped coming to classes for good. It’s not that they had really expected it, but the more jaded ones could see that once he got bored of the particular brand of attention and stimulation their classes provided, he would be moving on to something new. Well, not new really, but reliable. 

Mycroft arrived a week after Sherlock stopped going to class. He’d been gone for three days already and left his room spotless. His floormates had just assumed he’d been really, really quiet.


	51. Sizing Up the Competition

###### 22 October 2010

Text from Irene. John was watching a film with his back to him but Sherlock knew he still heard it because his shoulders tightened and he hunched forward. 

She was in Egypt. He wondered how long it would take to find her. They could race. See if he could track her down before she realized he was in the country. He didn’t think she would be at all difficult to find, but she was much, much cleverer than he had originally thought, so maybe she would surprise him again. Maybe she had the same unnerving ability that Victor had, to find him wherever he went, however far he ran. 

“If I tell you why I got kicked out of school, will you turn that rubbish off?” he asked John, who had turned up the volume on the film. 

“You told me. You were using.” 

“That was only the reason for uni. I meant the schools before that.” 

John hesitated. 

“There’s only ten minutes left. If I turn the volume down-” 

“No.” 

“I could put headphones-” 

“Nope. If you want to know why, it goes off.” John rolled his eyes, but fished the remote out of the cushions. 

“I’m finishing it tomorrow, though,” he said, conceding. Sherlock’s lips twitched. He’d won. 

“So what was it? Just your usual anti-establishment antics?” 

“I wasn’t actually kicked out the first time. I was getting beat up too much and they moved me out of fears for my own safety,” he said offhandedly. 

The smile fell from John’s face, which turned ashen. Sherlock hadn’t minded telling him, but suddenly he realized that it was essential that John didn’t pity him. Well, he wouldn’t when he heard the full story. 

“After that, I learned to anticipate the attack. I didn’t really know how to fight yet, but if I had the advantage of surprise I could come out on top. I knew they were about to throw a punch even before they knew, so I threw it first. The first school I left was for my own welfare, the second was to protect the other children.” When he finished John stared at him in surprise. And then started laughing. Giggling. _At_ him? 

“You little scrapper,” he cackled, “Good for you, Sherlock.” No, not at him. Relief. Relief? Yes. Surprise. Laughing with relief. Both of them. 

“And then in uni, I didn’t get sent down, I just left to pursue more interesting avenues of mental stimulation. At least I didn’t get arrested again. That time.” 

“You’d been arrested before?” 

“For pulling the emergency brake on the tube at Victoria Station. Wanted to see what happened.” 

More laughter. Milder. 

“Oh God. Please, _please_ do not do that again, especially when I’m on the tube with you.” 

“Why would I do it again? I know what happens now. On two continents.” 

“Still, we’d better stick to cabs when we can.”


	52. Solace

###### Sept 2000

Victor held Sherlock’s latest letter long after he finished reading it. Sherlock had posted it Tuesday evening- it hadn’t been postmarked till Wednesday but the envelope was slightly puckered from the rain on Tuesday night. Clearly hadn’t bothered with an umbrella. The ink had smudged the inside of the envelope, so he’d written it immediately before sending it. Not like Sherlock, to be home writing long letters instead of exploring every corner of London. The letter didn’t go into anything Sherlock was up to socially or mention anyone he knew. Didn’t have to. Victor had his news. Not that it kept him from worrying. 

Among the descriptions of the surveys and experiments he was conducting (comparative studies of mud, dust, and pollen from different boroughs), Sherlock had slipped in three sentences that Victor kept returning to. 

“ _I wish your father would hurry up and get well so you could come back here._ ” 

“ _I work so much better when I can talk through the lab protocol to you- sometimes I just pretend you’re there anyway and talk to the air, though the air doesn’t reply with your deceptively inane and hypersexualized nonsense._ ” 

“ _I like no one else’s rubbish quite so much as yours._ ” 

Victor smiled. Poor kid was lonely. He put the letter back in its envelope, and tucked it away in his desk. Poured himself a scotch and remembered the sharp rosy peaks of Sherlock’s lips on the edge of a glass, and their taste of tobacco and whiskey. He’d write his reply in the morning- make it a good, long, dirty, letter. Tonight he’d find solace in the bed of the postman’s daughter. She was unhappy, and liked to talk to Victor, who always liked to listen.


	53. Paper Planes

###### 1998-2002

Dear Sherlock,  
I hear you mentioned in every report of what London is like now and what it is doing. Even in the tales that do not mention you, in the silences, your name is as loud as shouting. You see? I was right. They love you, dear. Everyone will love you. Just remember, don’t define yourself by the others. Don't let their praise go to your head, don't let them see you need them. I know you won't listen to me... just try not to break too many hearts or too many heads, alright? I wish I could be there. Hopefully Father'll be in better health soon. When he does I'll start looking for a place in London. We can get a flatshare? If you'll have me.  
Now, I know you're using again. You only use a typewriter when you're using. For a genius, you're not always that much of a mastermind. Now listen, if you don't mind what I tell you now, you really will be an idiot. A pointless idiot. And my high opinion of you will have been utterly in error. So listen. Clean your damn needles. Use fresh ones whenever you can. You wouldn't use contaminated equipment in the lab, would you? No. So don't use it on yourself. I hate that I'm comparing you to a science experiment, but you should appreciate the analogy. Don't dissolve and rinse in the same water. Only buy from sources you know. Make sure you've got the naloxone I gave you. And I know you won't go to Mycroft's doctor and I can't say I blame you, he's probably been paid off to report on you. But I know the people at the clinic I took you to, they're good people and they won't be bribed. Make sure you go get yourself tested. Regularly. Hep B, Hep C, HIV. And for other STDs if you're exposing yourself to that. Don't roll your eyes. The clock'll chime and your face will freeze that way. Then see if I ever kiss you again.  
If you don't want me to keep nagging you about all this, then stop using and my letters will be filled with all sorts of different things. Probably just nagging you to come visit me. And if you do that, I wouldn't nag you at all. How could I, with my mouth so full...  
Take care, my darling prodigal.  
All my love,  
V

~

_Victor-_  
 _Forgot to tell me not to go outside with damp hair or eat sweets from strangers._  
 _Thank god you forced me to take boxing. Every rich young city boy seems to think he's Ken Buchanan._  
 _Mycroft is a fucking prat. Keeps threatening to stop payments on my rent checks. As if I'm ever home, anyway. I keep prank calling him from other people's phones. He's had to have his office number changed twice._  
 _If you want to see me so badly, you know where I am. I'm not going to dreary old Norfolk._  
 _Since we're making biblical references, please don't go hanging round precarious balconies, Jezebel, and take care your mascara doesn't run._  
 _SH_

~

Dear Sherlock,  
Yes, because you're so receptive when I _do_ come to see you. How will I know that you won't refuse to pick up your phone or be home when I come over, like last time? Or perhaps you were too busy prank calling your brother to keep the line free for me.  
You don't have to tell me Norfolk's dreary. I think I may be reaching your levels of boredom, although my ways of passing the time are considerably less destructive than yours. There's a grand total of forty-five faces within walking distance, and on top of that the car's been sold. You would wither with all the fresh air; it resists all my attempts to pollute it with cheap tobacco smoke.  
I had a friend in New Zealand place a collect call to Mycroft's phone. She told him she'd received a message in code that threatened British security, and then sang Judy Garland songs. The Man That Got Away and When You Smile, The World Smiles With You. Do you know who she is? Remember when I took you to the drag show with the queen with particularly extravagant eyebrows?  
If you're going to go all Old Testament on me, I might have to piss of Leviticus while I polish off my Song of Solomon on you....  
Victor

~

_V-_  
 _I take it you would like me to tell you where I graze my flock and where I rest my sheep at midday. My sweet veiled woman. Follow the tracks of the flock, of course._  
 _Good job with M._  
 _SH_

~

Dear Sherlock,  
Ah, you refuse to play the heretic with me and only dwell on the most chaste passages. I throw myself as sacrifice on your altar, and what do you give me? Sheep.  
I know very well where your flocks are fed, dear. I can see SoHo by daylight.  
Glad to see you've ditched the typewriter. Been up to quite a bit of fighting though, I see, and not playing violin much. You don't need to prove yourself to every muscle-bound brat who thinks he can best you. Don't break your musician's fingers to make them fighter's hands.  
Mycroft sent me a note saying I should stay in the bubble on my side of somewhere-over-the-rainbow. I sent him back a postcard and told him to watch out for houses I might drop on him.  
All my love,  
V

~

_V_  
 _I have no idea what you're talking about, is it films again? Are you being obtuse just to confuse me? Either way, glad you pissed off the walking umbrella stand. He's gotten a promotion of some sort and taken to walking everywhere, rain or shine, with a fucking umbrella. I'd like to beat him round the head with it. You'd probably stick it up his arse._  
 _Get a computer. I assume they have the internet in the country, although I could be wrong about that._  
 _SH_

~

Dear Sherlock,  
Heard you revealed Lady Chelmsworth's diamonds were fakes. What was the story behind that one? If you know where the real ones are, be an angel and send them my way, would you?  
I have to come in to London on business in two weeks. I wish it was for good this time, but I can get a few extra days if you'll be around.  
Love,  
V

~

Dear Sherlock,  
I'll be there in a week. Let me know if you want to see me.  
V

~

S-  
Came round at noon. I'll try again tonight. I'll be home till then if you want to come by. I'd like to see you.  
V

~

Sherlock,  
Yes, you look gorgeous in my clothes. Happy now? Ship it back using your brother's account.  
I wanted to stay. I would have been back that night.  
Why did you run out before I could talk to you at Lansdowne’s?  
I miss you. Please take care of yourself. You've done it before. You've the strength of a thousand men, and I know it must take every ounce of it, but please try.  
Don't let the burn on your arm get worse.  
Love from your idiot,  
Victor

~

Dearest,  
Alexandria? And Lebanon last week, and Damascus before that. I'll be devastated if I don't get a postcard. Something from the duty-free wouldn't be amiss, either.  
Over 3,000 miles between us and I'm sure you can still see the green sparkle of envy in my eyes.  
Are people the world over as easy to read for you as they are at home?  
xo,  
Victor

~

_Victor-_  
 _Marrakesh now. I don't know why people always go on about how wonderful travel is. I feel like I'm constantly running from the burnt red thighs of globalisation and Americans abroad surfing in on waves of Coca-Cola._  
 _There’s something brewing over here. Probably coming up on one of those 'crucial moments in history' you were always going on about at Uni. Never understood why you thought those were the moments that mattered. Isn't it all the unremarkable moments before a crisis that truly are worth notice? The secret, hidden ones, when it all could just come to nothing, the spaces where the foundation of the house of cards is built?_  
 _It's all very academic and dull. You'd love it. It's probably all Mycroft's bosses doing._  
 _I met a group of actors who are working their way up the coast of Spain with a Genet piece. I think I'll be following them for a while. They're Russian and none of them speak Spanish. I suppose I've become their translator. Not sure where I'll be staying so can't give you an address._  
 _I would say I wish you were here but I don't want to make myself vomit with such a hackneyed sentiment._  
 _SH_

~

Dear S,  
A troupe of Russian actors performing an absurdist French playwright? Who speak through the rosy British mouth of a mysterious, tall, dark, handsome, insufferable interpreter? Exactly how difficult do you think you are to find? Not quite undercover.  
Love,  
Victor

~

_Victor-_  
 _I'll get to Paris Thursday. Come join. There's a countess who's absolutely dying to meet me, apparently. She could be your belated birthday present from me._  
 _SH_

~

Mon petit chéri,  
I regret to tell you that you must entertain the Countess on your own. Can't swing the funds.  
Mon coeur est à toi,  
V

~

_Victor-_  
 _Make Mycroft pay you to be my babysitter again. He already thinks I'm debauched beyond hope, it wouldn't take much to convince him you're the only one to save me from the brink of destruction. I'll be here for a week or so more._  
 _With love and squalor,_  
 _SH_

~

Dear-  
I think your brother would rather give up all the suits in Saville Row rather than let me get my hands on one more coin of his, don't you agree?  
Victor

~

_Victor-_  
 _Countess says her sister is bringing a guest. Really, Victor, slumming it with younger sisters? I'd watch out for the father if I were you._  
 _Please tell me you weren't actually trying to surprise me._  
 _See you next week._  
 _SH_

~

Sherlock-  
I never expect to surprise you, I just see how long it takes you to figure it out.  
And I'm shocked at your low opinion of me. I always watch out for fathers. It's the daughters you have to watch out for. Especially in those occasions when they find you've passed them over for their dads.  
Counting the days.  
V

~

 _V,_  
 _I don't know whether it's your sickening activities or the foie gras that's turning my stomach._  
 _Anyone who wanted to follow the tracks of_ your _flock merely has to look for the highest bidder or the stench of sex._  
 _Rescue me from these bores in French._  
 _SH_

~

Dear Sherlock,  
Love you too.  
Till tomorrow,  
V

~

Dear Gavroche,  
Glad to see that Paris as well as London is now bewitched by you. Only right. Well, I liked you first, so take that, Paris.  
Father's pushing me to get a job. I think he's a little deluded about how much employers are looking for university dropouts. And then whenever I've gotten close to finding something, he starts worrying about me leaving him for London. I think I might try going back to university. Somewhere closer to home. Assuming your brother hasn't had my name blacklisted on every admissions committee in the country. Wouldn't want to have to resort to Scotland. I can't see you ever following me there.  
Let me know what you think.  
Love,  
Victor

~

_Victor-_  
 _When the hell are you going to get a computer? I can't believe your father once said you were a 'spirit of modernity.' I'm sure you'd resort to writing to me via carrier pigeon if you could only find one. I don't have time for this antiquated mode of communication. Think of all the fun new ways you could track my activities._  
 _SH_

~

Dear S,  
Was glad of your letter; I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.  
You want me to get a computer? Squeeze your brother or some of your rich friends for some cash and buy me one, then.  
Or you know, you could skip using for a week or so and use the money from that.  
V

~

_V_  
 _Fuck off. Yes it was worth the price of the stamp._  
 _SH_

~

S  
I don't think I will, but thanks for the suggestion. You never know, one of these days I might actually listen to you.  
V

~

 _Victor-_  
 _Why_ don't _you and prove me right, finally? You know it's just a matter of time._  
 _Got thrown out of Eskridge's place last night. I can't have been expected to know that his employers were so monumentally insipid that they couldn't see that he was stealing money. I do have some tact, you know. He could get his job back if he tells his boss he knows what's going on with his wife. Maybe he'd like if I told him that._  
 _It's so fucking dull. Nothing even worth leaving the house for. London is full of preening idiots._  
 _You think you're so much better than all of these petty fools. You're just as shallow as they are. You'd never have given me the time of day if you hadn't been getting a paycheque._  
 _SH_

~

Dear one,  
I'm not getting a cheque now. Your brother may have been paying me to fuck you but he wasn’t paying me to fall in love with you. And I will be there when you need me. In a heartbeat. I'm not tired of you, dear. You know that. Or maybe you don't. I told you I wasn't that easy to get rid of.  
Your brother won't be happy about Eskridge. They were in the same form. Doesn't his father work in the same department as Mycroft? Not to worry. That's what your brother is best at. Diplomacy. Perhaps it should be called hypnotism. Or a mild form of blackmail.  
There's some pretty salacious slander circulating with your name in it. It's clearly made up, but you should know that it's going round. Don't listen to them. Don't take their bait. You know they're just scared of you. Cos you're better than them. Did you want a break from London for a while? Come here?  
Love,  
Victor

~

Dear Sherlock,  
Happy birthday.  
Sent you tickets to a show. Please write to let me know how much you hated it.  
All my love x,  
Victor

~

Sherlock,  
I know my letters got there before you got kicked out of the last flat. It's not that hard to check.  
V

~

Sherlock,  
Getting your phone disconnected is no way to make me stop writing.  
V

~

_V_  
 _Mycroft's decided he's done paying my rent. And I obviously can't afford it on my own. So if you reply to this, I won't get it. And no, I don't want to come to Norfolk, so don't fucking ask me. It's not a hard choice between starving on the streets of London and mentally starving in dull, dusty, dank, dead, Norfolk._  
 _Just leave me alone, Victor. I wish you’d disappear. You’re not going to fucking save me. And I don’t want you to keep trying._  
 _Sherlock Holmes_


	54. Ball and Chain

###### 31 Aug 2002

It couldn’t really be called a letter. He hadn’t even bothered to type it to conceal his shaking handwriting, pen almost ripping the paper. Unlike the scrawled handwriting, the paper told Victor nothing. Standard notebook grade, could have been from any hotel room in London. Sherlock would have been able to see more in it. But Sherlock was busy losing himself as fast as he could. 

Victor splashed some scotch in a cup and gulped it down, steadying himself. His eyes had never looked so dark. He forced his features to smile: usually that did much to dull pain and cool fury. This time it made the bitterness in his heart rear up and smile back at him, lightly, with ease, with charm. 

“I can bear him not loving me,” he told the apparition, “But to be passed over for a needle- _that_ I will not bear.” 

His father was a fitful sleeper, so Victor could not be certain that he would remain asleep as he crept to his dresser and took the money from it. He saw Sherlock’s eyes in his mind, clear and searching, like they should be, and he saw how they softened when he smiled at them- too much to ask, he told himself, but they still glowed in his mind every second of the journey to London. 

Anyone else he could have run from. Cut ties and come out without a scratch. Sherlock, though. Sherlock had broken him, and Victor couldn’t run.


	55. Dropping the Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw reminder for injection drug use, mentions of suicide

###### 31 Aug 2002

“Get a hobby, why don’t you, Victor.” Sherlock was kneeling in the dark and didn’t even glance over his shoulder when Victor picked the lock and came in. 

“Come on, darling, we’re leaving.” 

“ _You’re_ leaving. Now. Get out.” 

“Not without you.” 

Sherlock laughed and didn’t look away from the needle and the spoon. 

“Sherlock, don’t make me watch you do this. Please.” 

“Nobody’s making you do anything. I distinctly remember offering you the option of removing yourself seven seconds ago.” 

“Do you think I don’t know that this is my fault? Will you just _look_ at me?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer. 

“I was supposed to take care of you, Sherlock!” Victor shut his eyes against the tears that flooded his vision. 

“I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to fucking kill yourself. Please don’t do this.” 

“Why? Are you working for my brother again?” 

“No, I’m not. I swear. Please, Sherlock. For _me_.” 

“Why would I do anything for you?” The question made Victor laugh weakly. 

“You little idiot... Because I care about you. Because I _love_ you.” 

“Then you’re stupider than I thought. I should change my behavior for the sake of sentiment? Stick to the false charm, Victor, your sincerity sickens me.” 

Then the needle broke into the raised vein and Victor’s whole body jerked with a visceral sickness. 

“And _you_ should stick to the brain work, dear. Relationships- love- clearly not your area.” 

Sherlock chuckled at the response, popped off the tie from around his arm and tossed it in Victor’s lap. 

Victor sniffed and wiped the wet off his face with his sleeve. Got to his feet and left the dank little room without a look behind him. 

“I knew you’d disappear someday, didn’t I?” Sherlock murmured, “Right again. I win.” 

They didn’t meet or speak again for four months.


	56. Mrs. Holmes

###### 1985

She smelled of bergamot and dark, thick, bitter chocolate. He would chase that scent- red and purple, he thought- through the halls and up and down the staircases and into the grand rooms and libraries, as it lingered on the velvet of cushions, in the spines of books, and in the chilled polished marble air. 

Sometimes he caught up to its source, and find he'd be too shy to call out as his mother moved farther away from him, moving silently and endlessly throughout the rooms. He'd watch her tall, straight figure vanish through doorways as he'd hide behind them. If she did see him, she'd reach a pale, beautiful hand down to cup his face briefly, lacing his black curls and the skin on his cheeks with bergamot and chocolate. 

"You should smile for her, Sherlock." 

"But Miranda doesn't smile. She doesn't tell me to, either." 

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. 

"Did you upset her?" 

"I didn't! No, I didn't do anything!" Sherlock protested. 

"And you mustn't call her 'Miranda,' anyway," Mycroft scolded him, "She won't like that." 

"But 'Mummy' sounds stupid. It's for babies," he said back. Mycroft laughed. 

"That's what you are, funny. 'Miranda''s only for Father and other grown-ups to call her. After all, you don't call Father by _his_ Christian name, do you?" 

At the time, Sherlock couldn't even say what his father's Christian name was. Just that it began with the same letter that his did. 

But that was not a trail he wanted to follow. 

  


As usual, the nanny brought him in to his mother that night at exactly 6:45 pm, so she could kiss him goodnight. Sherlock saw that she’d been in the garden for most of the day. That she hadn’t done any painting for weeks now. That she’d just seen his father. He remembered what Mycroft had said, and smiled at her and whispered, “Good night, Mother,” as she kissed his cheek. She pulled away and studied him, puzzled. “Did Mycroft tell you to smile like that?” she asked after a moment’s hesitation. Sherlock nodded. He was certain he’d done it wrong. She sighed. “Well, I’ll have to thank him when it’s his bedtime, now won’t I? He does try so hard,” she said, “Goodnight, Sherlock. Be good. Listen to your brother.”


	57. You Can Imagine the Christmas Dinners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw injection drug use

###### 24 Dec 2002

_Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone._

  


“You always needed the attention, didn’t you, Sherlock, always needed someone to tell you how clever you were. Just like when you were 8 years old. Couldn’t keep your mouth shut like any other normal kid, could you? Do you _know_ how much you hurt your mother? Fresh off of tearing the family apart but no, that wasn’t enough for you, was it? Had to run around pretending to be big man, sticking your nose in about that boy in the damn swimming pool. There was only three possible explanations for that drowning, Sherlock, _none_ of which were your business. And still, all that talk of forensics, using your talents in an even marginally respectable field, finishing your degree- what’s become of all that? No wonder you’re alone. I’m the only one you can depend on to be there for you, and how do you repay me? Wasting your life, your abilities, your connections. Grow up, Sherlock.” 

“I see, I suppose you did me a favor by kicking me out of my flat. Oh, sorry, did you not want me to let Mother know about that?” 

“Yes, I _did_ do you a favor. You may not see it now but if this is the only way I can get through to you, so be it. Showing up in this state was the final straw. I will not support your addictions any longer. Mummy, I’m sorry you have to hear about it like this, but he is still inject--” 

“Shut _up_ , Mycroft!” 

“Just keep this in mind when you’re even more alone than you already are and you come crawling to me. Remember how eager you were to ruin Christmas, to show off, to cause this scene in front of your poor mother...” 

“Mycroft, I fucking hate you, and I wouldn’t come crawling to you if you paid me. I don’t want to see your horrible-” 

“I quite agree, so why don’t you just get out of here already, get the hell out!”

  


The small plastic bag felt so familiar in his pocket, pressed against his thigh, that when it wasn’t there, when he took it out, it felt like something was missing. Like when he forgot to put his watch back on after a shower- there was a cold spot in the empty space where it should be. And yet when it was there, it did not make him feel satiated or calmed- instead, all his nerves took notice and could not possibly ignore the tickling sensation in his pocket, that urge to take it out and let his mind run far, far away from here. 

He didn’t want to stop walking. The streets were emptier than usual, more shops were closed. Less people got in his way as he fell forward through space. His ears ached with the cold. Should’ve brought a scarf. Had to make an effort to ignore it, even with his internal body temperature rising. Cold always bothered him more than heat. Still. It wasn’t something he’d write home about, or spend breath in conversation remarking on it. “Oh, it’s cold.” “Yes, it is cold, isn’t it?” “Oh yes, it’s very cold.” Fucking normal people. Why on earth would you stand around saying things like that out loud. Fucking hell. 

Fucking Mycroft. Showing off in front of mother. Trying to make him look like an idiot. Irresponsible. Infantile. Big grown-up Mycroft and his big important job and his big disgusting face and his big calculating mouth and his big superior brain. So, so clever, and yet Mycroft couldn’t see why their mother was upset. It wasn’t because of _Sherlock_ , it wasn’t his fault. She was worried about him, of course, she wasn’t stupid- never stupid. But that wasn’t it. It was because for all his proper manners and mincing precision and all his smiles and all his odious concern, Mycroft Holmes was just like their father. There had only ever been one man that their mother was afraid of. And now she saw that same man in her own son. And she hated it. Well, good job, big brother! Who’s the disappointment _now_? 

He laughed, and some carolers eyed him warily. He felt the first few drops of freezing rain hit him, and he pulled his coat’s black hood over his head. Wasn’t going to shoot up outside in _this_ weather, then. Looked at where the carolers were coming from. School. Church at the side. He jogged across the road and up the seven stone steps that led into the vestibule. Flood of warmth hit him from the hundreds of candles and the ancient heaters. Wasn't empty. Church people scurrying about, getting things ready for the big day. Night. Whatever. Delusional... There was a choir rehearsing "When Wounded Sore the Stricken Heart." Boys from the school. They had a youngish priest in charge of them. His first posting out of the seminary. Sherlock huddled in the second to last pew, removing his coat and draping it over his knees. He took a deep breath to steady his hands while he pulled cotton off a swab and rolled it between his fingers. The little cold and empty spot appeared on his thigh, and he flicked his lighter to make yet another flame in the sanctuary. The silver spoon he pulled from his rig was ice cold. His own little rituals. Just as ancient as the ones that would be performed upon the altar at midnight, yet so much more satisfying. To him, at least. Although... these days it had grown rather more like a habit than a decision. Just like these idiots marching unthinkingly into these pews every Sunday. He didn't like the way this comparison was going, so he shifted his attention onto the singing children at the front of the church. They had moved onto "In the Bleak Midwinter." He was surprised he hadn't deleted these from his memory, but then it was Christina Rossetti so he must have kept it under 'Poetry'. 

Mycroft had stayed in the choir till he was 16. Every holiday home from school. Sherlock had been asked to leave by the time he was 8. He'd had the best voice out of all the boys and learned the music before they'd even finished passing it all out, but still, Father Wakefield didn't really have a choice. Sherlock had never been cut out for any sort of collaborative, team effort. 

"He just refuses to work with the others," the Father had sighed to Sherlock's mother one day after mass. Mycroft had been smug, even then, following orders perfectly, making sure Sherlock could see how well he could make himself blend in if he wanted to. He didn't deserve to be that smug; everyone knew Sherlock was better at music than him, and he hadn't wanted to be in fucking choir anyway. He looked at each of the boys in their wrinkled white and red robes. He saw which ones were priggish little sycophants and which ones were clearly only there because someone was making them. One poor little swot was actually there because he was interested in the music, and the boy next to him was only there because he was in love with him. Fool. Hopeless, dreaming fool. Still. They all had homes to go to. They all were happy being stupid, being blind. Not for the first time in his life, Sherlock wondered if there was something wrong with him. He realized he was just holding the full syringe and the tie. His body was begging for the drug but he wasn’t quite ready to give himself over to it. Not quite yet. Ignored the cold sweat, the itching, swallowed back the nausea. Looked around the church. Could be worse places to spend a night. Colder places. It was warmer than Vauxhall Arches. But could be better places, too. He'd been beaten up in a church once. Got his ribs broken. Little over six years ago. 

" _Not that you've done anything with yourself since you were 13!_ " Mycroft's voice rattled around his head and the recalled sound of it made his lip curl. “ _Look at you! Ten minutes with you and I have to go_ disinfect _myself. At least you_ look _respectable, barely, but I suppose that’s the best we can hope for._ ” 

"My son, are you alright? Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" Another priest, this one in his early sixties (born in Wales, fought in the war, in a 12-step program, plays guitar) had come over to Sherlock, who pulled his coat up carefully over his work. 

"I'm here to celebrate the birth of our Savior but I appear to have gotten here early. I neglected to bring a gift, but those are always more for the parents, aren't they? Although I hear this particular baby has a fondness for exotic perfumes, I was thinking of popping over to Debenhams’ cosmetics counter and getting him some Chanel No. 5, do you think that would be appreciated?" 

The priest smiled and looked down at his shoes. 

"Are you alone tonight?" 

"You'll have to buy me a drink, first." 

"Son, this is a House of God. You are welcome to stay and pray here, but if you are going to be disruptive..." 

"For God's Sake, I'm just listening to the choir, alright?" Sherlock hissed. The priest murmured some more words that he was sure were meant to encourage him to go to a shelter or a meeting, before finally leaving him alone. Sherlock watched him leave him. He stared at the singers again. The young priest must have been particularly enamored of Rossetti. "Love Came Down at Christmas." Oh, did it? That's quite a few delusions in one. 

He always stayed out of Mycroft’s way as much as he could, that should make him happy. No. He needed him. Mycroft needed Sherlock to remind himself that he was cleverer. That he would always be cleverer. That his little brother would always be the fuckup and that he would always be the one that had it together. That he always won. To make himself feel like if it wasn’t for him, Sherlock would be lost. “Well, too bad, Mycroft, I’m lost with you or without you.” The singers blurred and Sherlock blinked rapidly. Interesting. Crying when angry. That hasn’t happened in a while. So fucking tired of interesting! He took his arms out from under his coat and tied off. Didn’t really care if they caught him. Almost wished he’d overdose and those sweet little innocents could find him. Some of them would be like him someday, be kind of him to give them a warning. Well. They’d never be like _him_. But there was a possibility that some of them would be homeless drug addicts one day. 

“God, let’s hope they don’t do Good King Wenceslas. I had to sing the page’s solo from that, might give me some horrific flashback,” said a soft voice from behind him. Steps. Someone sat down in the pew behind him. Sherlock laughed. 

“I did, too. Enough to drive you to drugs, isn’t it, Victor?” 

Victor slid his arms around Sherlock, holding his hands over the crooks of his elbows. Breath hit just under Sherlock’s right ear. Skin was sensitive, and it prickled. Sherlock held absolutely still. Victor worked the fingers of his right hand under the tie until it loosened and fell away. 

“Come on, darling. I need you.” 

“Mycroft called you.” 

“No.” 

“My mother called you.” 

“No, dear. Before you ask, your father didn’t, either. It’s all me. I need you.” He unwound his arms and moved out of the pew to stand next to Sherlock’s. He crouched down so he was looking up at him, and took his hand. Supplication. 

“Please, dear. It’s my father. I need your help.” He took the still-full syringe from Sherlock. 

“Will you come?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away. Victor rubbed his face. 

“Ever the stony gargoyle.” 

“You were right, you know. Relationships... not really my area. Not just… Mycroft’s finally disowned me. Mother’s too upset to look at me. For once in my life I think, out of everyone, the person I’m on best terms with is Father. If you can call not having spoken a word to each other for sixteen years that wasn’t screamed ‘good terms’.” 

“There’s always me.” Sherlock looked down and met Victor’s eyes. 

“No, there’s not,” he said bitterly. 

“Well, there was.” 

“But I fucked that up too, didn’t I?” 

“And there could be again.” 

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Sherlock was perilously close to shouting, and it was getting impossible for the singers and their leader to ignore him. He bent his face so it was close to Victor’s and punctuated each word, “ _I can’t have nice things_." 

“Sherlock!” Victor whispered fiercely, glaring at him. They held each other’s gaze for a few moments, and then the old smile broke across Victor’s face- not the perfect one he used for company, but the irrepressible, hopeless one that only used to appear for Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, they’re not my area, either, ok? They never were, I’m just a good liar. You know I am. But you know I don’t lie to you, God, even now. And I’m telling you that I need you.” He shook Sherlock by the arm and pleaded, “Sherlock, I think he’s dying. And you’re the only one who can help. He won’t let me go to the police, to anyone... Not that they’d be any use, but you know you could.” 

The choir had come to the end of their chant while the priest gathered his sheet music together, raised his hands, and then they began. 

“ _Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Steven_....” 

Victor and Sherlock both instantly shuddered. 

“Look, I know you’re not going to stay here and shoot up if you have to listen to this.” 

“You’re right. It’s a good method they’ve got for keeping their seats clean of junkies. Tap into childhood nightmares. Oh, God, won’t they ever fucking _shut up_!” Sherlock’s voice reverberated through the church and the young father jumped and spun around to look at where it was coming from. The door to the sacristy flew open and the older priest stormed out, headed straight for Sherlock. Victor grabbed Sherlock’s coat and his hand. 

“Run!” Not even trying to go quietly or suppress their laughter, they ran out the door and down the stone steps into the darkness and the rain outside. When they got a few streets away, they ducked into a doorway and Sherlock bent over to catch his breath. They saw that they were still holding hands, and hurriedly let go without meeting each other’s eyes. Victor coughed, to cover the end of his laughter. Once, drunk at university, Victor had grabbed his hands and spun him around in the snow, and they’d waltzed through the whole courtyard laughing their heads off, even though nothing really was funny. But that was much too long ago to touch them now. Too long ago for them to touch. 

“There’s a train that leaves for your father’s in ten minutes. We can catch that and you can tell me about it on the way. You’ll have to pay for me, though, I’ve absolutely no money.” 

“Wouldn’t be happy any other way, dear,” Victor said, and grinned at him, “I’m prepared to buy you dinner as well, if you like.” 

“Couldn’t stomach it. Had to sit through Christmas dinner with Mycroft and my mother.” 

“Which is why, I assume, I found you seeking refuge in St. Gregory’s.” 

“How _do_ you find me?” 

“I’m your guardian angel, love, if I told, they’d take my wings away.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“And no, I don’t need your brother’s help to find you. Never have. Never will,” he said, his smile belying the bitterness of his fists, jammed deep in his coat pockets.


	58. Early One Morning, Devil Knocked Upon My Door

###### 24 October 2010

“A few months before his son requested my help, Lord Trevor received a letter. He opened it at breakfast. As soon as he read it, he went all moany, but wouldn’t tell his son why or show him the letter. Victor could only see that the letter was short and handwritten. His father took to his rooms and was especially nervous after that. 

“A week after the letter arrived, a stranger arrived. Well, a stranger to Victor. The man’s name was Houston.” 

“That was the name mentioned in the letter,” said John. 

“Your brilliance astounds me.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I thought you wanted to hear the rest of the story.” 

John opened his mouth with another retort, thought better of it, and stayed silent. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to kill the smile. 

“Alright. So when this man shows up, he asks to see Lord Trevor. Houston’s told he can’t see him; he’s sick. Houston tells Victor and Mrs. Carter to tell Lord Trevor his name. They do, and instantly Lord Trevor tells them to let him up to see him. When their meeting is over, Lord Trevor informs them that Houston’s an old friend (from _where_ he refused to specify, and he’d never in his life mentioned him to Victor) and that he’ll be stopping by every once in a while, and that they are to pay him every respect. 

“The man came by about once every week, and occasionally staying on for a day or so. Always in the best rooms. If they were lucky, Houston just would simply appear at the end of the week, speak with Lord Trevor on his own, and then leave with a self-satisfied expression. Victor, in his understated way, told me that he found Houston ‘singularly uncouth and unpleasant.’ That he spoke mainly in grunts and euphemisms, and made a habit of drinking the house dry. He was a lumbering hunk of muscle and managed to break half the chairs and china, and yet was still stealthful enough to appear within hearing distance unexpectedly whenever Victor tried to make a phone call or speak to his father or Mrs. Carter privately. 

“It didn’t take a genius to see that Houston was blackmailing Lord Trevor, but Victor couldn’t get his father to admit it, or let him do a thing about it. Lord Trevor gave orders for more and more of the family’s things to be sold off- paintings, books, furniture, even his dead wife’s jewelry. The thing that rattled Victor the most, however- and Victor was not easily rattled- was the way Houston spoke about and to his father. Called him all sorts of names, and when Victor would take him to task about it, Houston would snicker into his chest and say ‘Such old friends as me and your father can talk however they like about each other. You have a problem with me, take it up with your old man.’” 

“And did he?” 

“Yes, he tried. Lord Trevor was a nervous wreck by then and would just would clutch at Victor’s hand, telling him he knew it must be hard on his son but he must bear it, saying that all he did was for Victor’s sake, that he mustn’t hate his father. Over and over, even though Victor told him he could never think badly of him. Well, Victor would hardly think badly of the devil, let alone his own father.” 

“But this Houston was an exception.” 

“Quite an exception, by Victor’s account. In fact when he came to ask for my assistance, he told me that he would he’d have taken the devil’s side if the Beast bet against Houston. Still, he wouldn’t go against his father’s command, and so Houston’s blood-letting of the family Trevor continued unchallenged.”


	59. Demeter Grew a Pomegranate Tree

###### 24 Dec 2002

It was dark outside the train windows, and the close trees blocked out the strings of lights from the nearby houses. Sherlock’s reflected eyes stared back at him, their shape and colour inherited from his mother. Few realized how carefully constructed was the placidity of her features and the composure in her eyes. Sherlock hadn’t even realized it himself for years. 

She’d followed him out into the hall and caught him before he vanished. His jaw was tight and his face hot and he was breathing hard and couldn’t speak anymore because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from yelling and he didn’t want to yell at her like he just had at Mycroft. She didn’t try to stop him as he pulled on his coat. 

“You know, I was never angry at you, Sherlock. For telling me about your father.” 

She spoke quietly and Sherlock stooped towards her with a slight incline of his neck. 

“I’m not stupid, you know-” 

“Mother, no one would ever think that-” he managed to say. 

“Well, yes, they would. He did. I thought I was just going crazy. Anyway. I was relieved you told me. Grateful even. Well- I never wanted you thinking it was your fault. But this... you just won’t let anyone help you, will you, Sherlock? I know it must be too much to ask you to understand how others feel. But don’t think you’re the only one who feels alone.” She spoke with force and her eyes were red and watery, and did not meet his. 

Having concluded, the woman gave a quick, bird-like little nod and turned away, trailing a thinning red and purple scent, back towards the door that he’d slammed so hard that every servant had heard it. Sherlock looked at the back of her head. Perfectly pinned and curled and combed. When he was a child he would stare up at her towering form, at the architecture of that hair and wonder at its impossibility, as it dashed through the halls, always industrious and occupied. Then one day he’d come home and all of a sudden he had to look down at her. And she stared up at him like he was a stranger. 

He would’ve liked to kiss her cheek goodbye, thank her and tell her he was sorry. But that wasn’t quite _them_ , was it? What he would have _liked_ to do seemed stupid, and what he _needed_ to do was freeze his face in the bitter wind and attend to the enormous weight of the tiny plastic bag in his trouser pocket. Prove them all right, why not? So he let his anger carry him out the door. 

“Sherlock.” Victor shook his arm gently. 

“I wasn’t asleep.” 

“No, of course you weren’t. I got you a tea.” 

“Sugar?” 

“D’you think I’m stupid?” Victor asked, smiling a little, “Of course with sugar, you loon.”


	60. Bibles and Blackmail

###### 24 Oct 2010

“So what was the final straw?” John asked. 

“That came three days before Victor came and found me.” 

“Found you?” 

“Came to ask for my help. Victor had come downstairs one morning to find Houston, already drunk, wearing his father’s clothes and carrying his father’s suitcase. Houston told him that he was taking a weekend holiday, and would be back the following week. 

“‘Oh, must you?’ Victor said. Houston asked if he was getting tired of his company. Victor said something to the effect that he’d been sick of his company from the first moment he’d walked through their door. Houston told him to watch his tongue, that he didn’t take lightly to insult. Victor said that he didn’t take lightly to parasites. At that, Houston tried to strike Victor, but as I have told you before, Houston was already drunk and Victor was in the prime of his life and a skilled fighter. He didn’t attack the man outright but pushed him away, knocking Houston well back. Houston was furious and said that if Victor didn’t apologize to him, he would have hell to pay. He told Victor that he should have his father beat some sense into him, that he wanted an apology within the hour, and if it didn’t come, he would leave and never come back. Since this was exactly what Victor wanted, he went to tell his father what had happened, hoping some relief had come at last. 

“When he did, Lord Trevor panicked and told Victor that he mustn't slight Houston, that he must go so far as to beg for Houston’s forgiveness. Repeated that all he did was for Victor’s sake. That Houston must forgive them, and in turn, Victor must forgive his father. At first Victor argued and tried to get a fuller explanation, but to no use. The Trevors were stubborn men, and Victor could not bring himself to apologize to such a creature, nor Lord Trevor to explain why he thought it necessary. 

“It was then that Houston, who had been lurking outside Lord Trevor’s room, burst in and told them both that they were as good as damned; that soon they’d see what he could do. He left the house that instant. 

“‘You have killed me, boy, you have killed us,’” were the next words his father spoke. It was such a change from the robust, resolute man that had raised him, that Victor was afraid for his father’s life. Victor decided he needed to call in some extra help- although his father absolutely forbid him contacting the police. He only agreed to Victor contacting me because he’d met me as a boy and he knew that my secrecy could be depended upon.” 

“You’re telling me, though,” John said. 

“This was a very long time ago, John. I only tell you now because none of it matters anymore. Although as a formality I suppose I should tell you to change the names if you decide you must blog about it.” 

“Your friend Victor would probably prefer that.” 

“I suppose he would.” 

“What happened when you got to Norfolk?” 

“I went straight to Lord Trevor’s rooms. It was the middle of the night but the ill often keep irregular hours, and he was as alert as he ever was those days. Less focused on reality than on the approaching terror that only he could see, but still awake and aware. I have never been asked to care for a sickly parent or relation, and I have never been as close to any as Victor was to his father. But looking back I think I can understand that it must have been difficult for him. To have lived most of his life trying to please this man, who was now disintegrating before his eyes.” Sherlock eyed John. 

“But I suppose I don’t have to tell you that.” 

John looked surprised. They’d never talked about his own parents. 

“That... wasn’t me. That was Harry. I wasn’t in England. It was during the war,” he said. 

“Ah. Well never mind then,” Sherlock said, brushing it off, “As soon as I went into his room I could tell where the letter was.” 

“Set his fire alarm off?” 

“Didn’t have to. A secular family such as that? What was a King James Bible doing without the same covering of dust as the other books next to it? If Victor hadn’t been so distraught at his father’s condition I’m sure he would have seen it himself. I knew I was right because as soon as my eyes fixed on it, the old man groaned and as I went over to it, he begged me to keep the discovery from his son."


	61. Houston Places His Bets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _You may have less, but you have more to lose._ ”

###### 25 Dec 2002

“I didn’t tell him last time, did I? Why would you think I would change my behavior now?” Sherlock said as he flipped through the pages of the bible. Lord Trevor had no answer but moans. Sherlock found what he was looking for in an instant. An imprecisely folded sheet with a typed message, stuffed into an envelope, and sent from a Mr. Beddoes in Hampshire. 

>   
> _Houston, the problem: Is Jesus not coming? We pretend he serves our wants, but can what all of you poor sinners owe be forgiven? Or can yet he save? The Will of God reveal?_   
> 

Sherlock read it three times. Then once more. 

“So who is he? Old enemy? Or former ally? He can’t have the Society’s backing if he’s ready to out its members. He’s turning against all of you, isn’t he? Or just all of you that left the flock?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I hadn’t spoken to Beddoes since I was a member, but since he himself does not have the power to silence Houston, I gather he has also left that company.” 

“Who is Houston?” 

“I never knew the truth. If I’d known what he did I would have never...” 

“Lord Trevor, tell me who he is!” 

“You mustn’t tell Victor, Holmes. You _can’t_. Not while I live. I’ve kept it from him this long; let me at least die with my son’s faith in me.” 

“Fine. I’ll tell him nothing. Just tell me who he is.” 

“He wasn’t always at the meetings, just some. Never said a word. They used to talk about sending people to Texas. I thought they meant relocating them to America, out of the way. But that’s not what they meant. They’d send Houston to them, and he’d... they’d...” 

“The hitman.” 

“Yes.” 

“And now he’s threatening to expose your involvement in the Society unless you give him anything he wants?” 

“I don’t know why he chose our family. Why he couldn’t have chosen someone with more to give.” 

“Obvious. You think of your family name as perilously close to the mud already. He didn’t have to put much pressure on you. You may have less, but you have more to lose, and you let your conscience get the better of you.” 

“You could never understand, _Holmes_.” 

“No, I can’t understand how figurative mud thrown on such an abstract concept as a name, representing hereditary power status, matters enough to put yourself through everything you’ve done.” 

“But, Holmes the Younger, you _do_ understand how it feels to have to fight to be seen. To have to fight to keep from everyone knowing you’re lower, you’re less, you’re lacking.” 

The little colour there was in Sherlock’s face seemed to drain away, while Lord Trevor seemed to recover a touch of it in his cheeks. 

“Do you have _nothing_ to fight him with?” Sherlock asked. Lord Trevor shook his head. As Sherlock left the room, he shut the door a little too forcefully behind him. Victor, from his seat in the hallway, held his head in his hands to keep from glaring at Sherlock. 

“I need access to the whole house.” 

“Of course. Could you hold off slamming doors till the morning? My father is a very sick man, Sherlock-” 

“I thought you needed this cleared up quickly. We don’t know how long Houston will wait to do whatever he’s planning. It was all you could do to keep from kidnapping me off the streets. Well, that’s basically what you did do-” 

“Alright, fine. I’m sorry- thank you for coming with me. I’ll get you anything you need.” 

“I don’t need anything from you.” 

“No, of course you don’t.” 

“Get me a pack of cigarettes, though. The good ones.” 

Victor reached inside his coat pocket, producing a slightly-dampened box of Sherlock’s favourite brand. 

“Had a feeling you might want them.” 

Sherlock snatched them from Victor’s hand and immediately lit one. 

“So you’ll allow me access to the whole house. You won’t interfere with my investigation, then?” 

“Yes, I said...” Victor’s eyes narrowed and Sherlock sighed with impatience. 

“You mean Gloria’s room? What could you need from in there? What does it have to do with her?” 

“Victor!” 

“Yes, alright, fine. Just... just be careful, would you?” 

“What, exactly, are you afraid of me disturbing?” 

“Sherlock... You don’t know what it’s like to lose a sibling.” 

“Well, if I lost my brother, I imagine I’d have rather a large party and probably ingest quite a copious amount of-” 

“Look, do whatever you want. Let Mrs. Carter know if you need anything,” Victor said, grabbing his bag and heading off towards his room. 

Sherlock’s cracked lips stretched back across his face, baring his teeth in a crude imitation of a smile. Wearing this uncanny grin, he turned his head towards the stairs that led to the floor above, where a lifeless little room lay waiting for his devouring.


	62. Ghost Ships

###### 24 October 2010

“The code was laughably simple. Every third word mattered, the rest was rubbish. It was meant to read, ‘Houston is coming. He wants what you owe, or he will reveal.’” 

“Why such a simple code?” 

“Simpler code for simpler men from a simpler time. Pre-computer educations, set in their ways. Trevor was hardly a religious fanatic, so it was clear that it meant nothing and was a cipher- which is why Trevor was so insistent that his son not lay eyes on it. He would have seen through it in less time than it took to write it. Whoever Beddoes was, he was undoubtedly being blackmailed by Houston as well.” 

“What did you do? What _could_ you do?” asked John. 

“The sister. The one who’d died. She must have been just as bright as her brother. She’d figured it out. She knew her father had gotten himself into a dangerous situation, one that he’d have trouble getting out of. _She_ was the one who managed to send Houston away, in the end. They just couldn’t see what she’d left them, but I could. Eventually. I remembered that during my brief glance into her room, I had seen something out of place. Something wrong. As soon as I was back in her room, I could see what it was. She’d been a girl who liked popular things, modern things. And unlike her brother, she hadn’t bothered to honor antiquated history for the sake of pleasing her father.” 

“Okay...” 

“There was quite a hideous painting of a ship hung directly over her desk. Reproduction of early nineteenth century. Not the sort of thing a teenage girl with a heroin habit and a penchant for punk rock would keep in pride of place.” 

“Someone put it there?” 

“Yes. She did. It was deliberately hideous. Victor spent virtually no time in there since his sister died, so he didn’t notice how obviously out of place it was. If he did, I believe he would have questioned it. I started to look through her stacks of writing, to see if there was some explanation among them.Notebooks upon notebooks. Clippings and scraps. Not necessarily strange, she was in school at least some of the time and she could have just written a lot, but that’s where I started. The girl had been trying to crack a code. 

“While Victor was at university, his field of study was almost as obscure as mine, but his specialty had been linguistics. He studied the history and development of language and all its diverse uses. Not just spoken languages. Codes. But his codes, his puzzles, were primarily word and language based, while this code appeared to be mathematical in nature. At least, at first glance it did. As I started looking through her papers, I found diagrams. Maps. Pages and pages of numbers. Like this.” 

Sherlock snatched the paper next to John, folded open to the crossword, and scribbled a series of numbers for John to see. 

“The first four numbers were always the same. 29.95, then a dash. After that followed four more numbers that changed, but the numbers 51.00 often appeared, and then another dash. Then a sequence of two to four numbers, dash, and another sequence of numbers the was much more varied.” 

“That could be anything. Book code?” 

“No. I knew the key was in the first four numbers that never changed.” 

“And this all had to do with the Houston bloke?” 

“She was the only wrong thing about that family. I called Trevor in to see what he thought.”


	63. Cracking

###### 25 Dec 2002

Victor stood at the doorway of his sister’s room. Consciously or not, he put not even a toe over the threshold. The cold morning light filtered through the dusty window. The rain hadn’t stopped. 

“You’ve been up all night?” 

“You can see that I have. Why are you bothering to ask?” Sherlock said, not looking up from the papers that he’d strewn across the entire room. 

“Care for a break? Cup of tea?” 

“No.” 

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” 

“Really?” 

“Father’s sleeping, at last. You scared him last night, whatever you said.” 

“What the hell do you think your sister meant by all this?” 

“I was just a kid. She never told me anything about it.” 

“Is there anything in this code that you recognize?” 

Victor hesitated, then pushed through the invisible barrier and came into Gloria’s room. He carefully stepped around the papers to the bed Sherlock was perched on, and looked at the notebook held out to him. He shook his head at first, “We used to play spies when we were kids. Try to invent uncrackable codes for each other. But these are different. The ones we did were never numbers. She hated maths.” Then something about it seemed to catch his eye. He flipped a page. And another. 

“But that’s...” 

“What is it?” 

“These numbers. The second bunch of four. You see how it’s 51.00 some of the time? More than half the time, it seems?” 

“Of course I’ve seen it, tell me what you think it means.” 

“That’s the coordinates for London, isn’t it?” 

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed and he jumped to his feet, tearing through the pages of the notebook with a fresh hunger. 

“The year she died, she got really into maps. She took me to this shop in town once and picked up three different kinds of compasses.” 

“That’s what is is. They’re coordinates. I’m so bloody stupid, why couldn’t I see that?” 

Sherlock threw open an atlas from the side table, but swore and slammed his hand into the book a moment later. 

“But it doesn’t explain the whole thing. The numbers at the very end, they don’t lead anywhere. Middle of the ocean. Alaska. More ocean. Nothing. Still, that’s what the first two sequences must mean. A call number, and then coordinates. After that, not sure yet.” 

“A call number? What do you mean? What do the first four mean?” 

Sherlock grinned, ghastly and fervent again. 

“Your sister never went to America, did she?” 

“Never.” 

“Knew anyone there?” 

“Don’t think so.” 

“Did she want to go there?” 

“The only place she ever showed a desire in going was Not Here.” 

“Exactly.” 

“What are the first four numbers?” 

“Houston, Texas.”


	64. Tinged With Romanticism

###### 24 October 2010

“So the first bit was just addressing the code to Houston?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded. 

“And the second bit. London?” 

“Often London. Or France, Wales, Berlin, Scotland, Newcastle, Oxford, Cambridge, Manchester, Birmingham, Bristol, Leeds, Brighton, Plymouth, Exeter...” 

“Ok, I think I get the picture...” 

“A few for Norfolk too. Right where we were. Houston was the J.A. Society’s hitman, and Trevor’s sister had the answer to how he got his instructions.” 

The afternoon was darkening early, and the frown lines on John’s face stood out in sharp relief. 

“But what does that mean? Was she in it too? The Society?” 

“No. She was trying to break them. In her notes it was clear that she was still trying to crack the last part of the code- the last few numbers. I found that out the next day.” 

“Did they kill her, then?” 

“It’s hard to know. I don’t think they did. She didn’t plan on overdosing, but I could tell by her writing that she was taking progressively stronger doses.” 

“Were you still using back then?” 

“Please don’t try to psychoanalyse me, John.” 

“I wasn’t at all, I was...” 

“...Utterly irrelevant. If you want to hear the story because of your interest in the deductions and events that led to my present career, I am only happy to oblige, but if you’d rather hear about the sordid details so you can turn your blog into an amateur version of The Sun...” 

“Oh, for Christ’s- forget it. I’m sorry. Never mind,” John said. Sherlock said nothing, but looked like he was on the border of an unholy sulk. 

“Look, I don’t know how many times I have to say I’m sorry before you start realising that I’m not trying to hurt you. But fine, it’s none of my business,” John said. 

It was late into the night, and for once the lines on Sherlock’s face didn’t look like they were solely from infuriatingly perfect bone structure. He had gained back a bit of the weight he’d lost over the summer, but still looked drawn and exhausted. 

“Well, seeing as you’ve made me entirely your business, I suppose you’re not entirely out of line. Yes, I was still using on and off.” 

“That must have made it harder. Working on a case with a girl who’d been through the same thing.” 

Sherlock glowered at John. 

“You have never been more annoying in our entire acquaintance.” 

“Empathy, Sherlock. I was giving it a go, maybe you could do the same one of these days.” 

“You’re clearly rubbish at it, or you would have empathized with my burning desire to stab myself in the ears so I wouldn’t ever have to hear that sympathetic twaddle again.” 

“Ah yes, I’m the worst person in the world again, I see.” 

“Come off it, John, it’s not my fault your concern occasionally makes me want to shoot myself.” 

“Careful you don’t let that get around. Moriarty might show up with a box of tissues and flowers and ask if you’d like to talk about Mummy.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Well, I think I will, come to think of it. As much as I’m dying to hear the rest of this, I’ve got a severely neglected bed that appreciates my company.” 

“Yes, but it’s not half as interesting as me,” Sherlock purred. John laughed. 

“That’s what you think, mate.” 

John was asleep within half an hour. Sherlock stayed up, but didn’t look at any of his experiments or even get out his violin. He’d taken a biro to one of their white cloth napkins. Drawn a hand-sized clipper ship with a heavy bow, at odds with the surrounding sea. The blue ink in the waves smeared under his thumb. He stared at the drawing for many moments. Then he lit it on fire and watched it burn itself out of existence.


	65. Between the Devil and the Deep Black Sea

###### 25 Dec 2002

_But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much._

It appeared the rain would never let up. He stood out in the yard behind the kitchen, sheltered by the thin overhang of the gutter, and felt the cold water seep in through a hole in what were once his good shoes. He could hear Sherlock slamming doors and stomping down stairs even from out here. He smiled at him, habit mostly, once the kitchen door had banged shut behind him. Sherlock pulled out a cigarette but couldn’t light it in the rain. 

“Come here,” Victor told him, lighting it for him in the sheltered space between their bodies. Sherlock grunted what passed for thanks, and turned back into the yard, disregarding the intemperate weather. 

“How goes it?” Victor asked. Sherlock scowled and ignored him. 

“That well, I see,” Victor murmured to himself. Sherlock shot him with a look, and then, unexpectedly, drew nearer to him than he’d chosen to stand for a long time. His arm that wasn’t busy smoking was wrapped across himself, but his hips swung forward to brush the back of Victor’s hand, and his feet found their way in between Victor’s. He was now ever so slightly taller than Victor. 

“Haven’t slept the last few nights, haven’t you? Your watch is behind. Do you still wind it first thing every morning? Before you’re even awake? Before the sweat’s even dried on your sheets?” he said, smoke billowing from his mouth with each word. He leaned even closer, speaking softly into Victor’s ear, “I always thought that was one of your most fucking annoying habits, Victor.” His mouth and tongue pressed against the soft, warm skin of Victor’s throat. “That, and your absolutely nauseating sense of moral integrity,” he said, taking a breath, and taking hold of Victor’s waist. He pushed his lips into Victor’s and bit into them. A low vibration stirred in Victor’s throat, and it made Sherlock grin and force open Victor’s mouth further, pushing his tongue in deeper, demanding reciprocation. 

Victor pushed him off. Both their mouths were slick. Victor’s breath was labored and jagged. He made himself smile. Habit, mostly. Practice. Sherlock still wore that hungry grin. 

“What’s the matter, Victor? You don’t have a boyfriend. You don’t have a girlfriend. You’re not fucking anyone at the moment. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t like to. Oh, don’t tell me you’ve gone celibate on me. Or just a bit shy?” He yanked Victor’s belt towards himself but Victor kept him at arm’s length. 

“If that nagging moral integrity is wondering if I’m fully in possession of my faculties, I am. I haven’t shot up for well over forty-eight hours now.” 

“I think by now I can tell when you’re high or not.” 

“Well, I’m not, and I want to fuck you.” 

“Do you.” 

“Didn’t I just _say_ so?” 

“I think you’re just bored,” Victor said. For the ten-thousandth time, he counted each mole on Sherlock’s neck. His hand hovered over Sherlock’s body, over his hips that still pushed forward, but with a rush of decision, his fingers pulled the pack of cigarettes from Sherlock’s jeans pocket and he moved himself out of the trap between Sherlock and the wall. 

“Of course I’m _bored_. It’s something to _do_ ,” Sherlock growled back. He followed Victor out into the center of the dirty grey yard. 

“Is it something _you’d_ like to do?” Sherlock asked. He was wearing no jacket, and the rain made his thin white shirt cling to his over-accentuated bones. He reached out a hand to the base of Victor’s back. 

“Don’t. Just- I’m sorry. Don’t.” Victor shook him off, and left the yard and Sherlock in it. 

  


When Sherlock didn’t open Gloria’s door the next morning, Victor had thought he’d just been sleeping. Or ignoring him, more likely. Thought he’d shut himself up in there. And Victor thought he’d let him sleep, or let him to himself, and hadn’t pressed it. Only knocked twice. Didn’t try the door. 

By the day after, Victor didn’t wait for an answer to the knock and walked right in. Sherlock wasn’t there. The room looked torn apart. Papers Gloria had written on lay crumpled on her desk. Some on the floor bore careless footprints. Her pillow had been thrown at the wall in frustration. Her mattress had been flipped off the bedframe. The painting from over her desk was facedown on her chair. Victor locked himself inside the room and willed it all to be a lie. His father was fine; the room was fine; he’d never asked Sherlock to come and help. Or better, Sherlock had just been a kid he’d met briefly at school. He shut his eyes so tight that red and black patterns swirled beneath his eyelids; he knew when he opened them he would have to reckon with the choice to go track Sherlock down, with what to tell his father. 

He opened his eyes and the bright white stars cleared in moments. No. He would stay in Norfolk. If Sherlock was gone, he was gone. There was no chasing him anymore.

  


He came back the next day, in the late afternoon. His eyes were blazing, like they always did in those periods of fierce and ruthless energy. He pushed past Victor, ignoring the questions about where he’d been, and headed directly to Gloria’s room. Victor rushed in behind him, and stood gripping the doorframe at what he saw happening in front of him. Victor shouted his name in shock and anger, but Sherlock didn’t even pause as he grabbed the painting of the ship, flicked open his knife and ripped a diagonal slash in the canvas. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Victor yelled. Sherlock tore at the canvas so it hung in tatters and revealed the back of the heavy wooden frame. 

He grinned at his work, pulled something out which had been hidden behind the canvas and against the frame, and dropped the ruined painting to the floor. 

“What is it?” Victor asked. The smirk slid off Sherlock’s face. 

“I can’t tell you.” He placed the few small papers he’d taken into his inside pocket. He waited at the door of the room, pointedly, till Victor stepped aside, and then he took the stairs up two-by-two, and walked without knocking into Lord Trevor’s bedroom, shutting the door so Victor could hear no sound from within.


	66. What, After All, Is a Halo?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's only one more thing to keep clean._

###### 25 October 2010

John wondered if there ever again would be a time when didn’t have that sense pricked for when- if- Sherlock would slip up. If he would ever feel confident that he didn’t have to worry. If he would ever feel like it wasn’t his problem to worry about. 

That sense had never dulled for him around Harry. 

Addicts, when sober, are just as susceptible to the black moods that plague them while under the influence. With Harry, John had always thought that when she was sober, the periods of anger and despair were even worse. At least when she was drunk he could blame that. And just the same with Sherlock. Today was a day for one of those moods, it seemed. It had been a row with Mycroft this morning. Quite early. The distinctive and familiar sound of phone-thrown-into-fireplace had roused John from his sleep. When he’d come downstairs he’d found Sherlock draped sideways across his chair, petulantly unresponsive to John’s attempts to offer him coffee or breakfast. That scowl was the particular one only worn after bouts with Mycroft. John was a bit pleased with himself for recognizing that. He wondered if Irene, if Molly, if Greg could have picked that look out of a lineup like he could. Wondered if Sherlock let his face grow as expressive around them as he did around John. Though his face didn’t always broadcasting his inner life, when it did, it was usually around John, and usually more eloquent than John ever expected. He would have almost found it beautiful, if didn’t often mean the onset of Sherlock at his stormiest. 

He let his guard down around him, then. Fair enough. Nothing astounding there, he supposed. Not after what they’d been through. But did Sherlock ever let Greg, let Molly, let Irene see him like this? Unkempt, unshowered, in mental as well as physical disarray? Did he let Victor see him like this?

  


It struck Sherlock that at that at the moment John, frowning and sniffing the air, bore more than a passing resemblance to those small, long, brown, rodenty animals. The ones on the nature show John had been watching the other night. Except they had been markedly social and familial animals, while John hadn’t been on a date or out with his friends or spoken to his sister in over a week. 

“Did you set the curtains on fire?” 

“Not the curtains, no.” 

John noticed the burned and blackened napkin left on the table. He rolled his eyes and tutted. 

“You could always take up knitting or something if you’re bored, you know. I suppose it was for the greater good of science?” 

Sherlock continued staring at his own knees, draped over the arm of the chair, and refused to answer. 

“Well, go on. How’d you crack it, then? The Trevors’ case.” 

“Yes, I know what you meant.” 

“And…?” 

“Arent’t you bored of hearing about that yet?” 

“No, of course I’m not bored of it, you haven’t finished telling me yet. If you’d told me it five times already, I might be, but you’ve rather left me hanging, here. And since you’ve clearly nothing better to do, and you don’t have a case…” 

“I’m tired of talking about it.” 

“So… you’re not gonna tell me how brilliantly you trapped Houston? Not detailing your success? That’s not like you.” 

“That’s exactly like me; I give up explaining things to Lestrade & Co. halfway through all the time.” 

“Right. Ok. But you always tell me. Eventually.” 

“...I do?” 

John laughed a little. 

“Yeah, you do. Whether or not you notice if I happen to be in the room with you or not is a different story. Go on, then. You’d just cottoned on to the code being locations.” 

“The Trevors didn’t own a computer so I couldn’t move as quickly as I’d have liked, but I managed to link the coordinates in the beginning of each code phrase to unsolved murders and suspicious deaths over a period of twenty years. But I still couldn’t understand the last few numbers in each sequence- neither, I believe, could Gloria Trevor, for quite a while- so I tried to figure out how she was receiving this information, to see if that yielded anything new. That was the difficult bit, after that it was all cleanup. I also didn’t know how Gloria initially began to suspect that her father was involved with a suspicious unknown entity. She could have observed tattoo on his finger, like I did, or questioned his unexplained trips to London. We’ll never know exactly what it was, only that sometime in the year before her death, Gloria began trailing her father, and trying to ascertain the purpose of the Society and his involvement with it. She must have followed her father to many of the Society’s meetings. Would have overheard the business discussed. Gloria was much cleverer than her father, and quickly came to the realization that this was not just a harmless fraternity of the peerage, as her father believed. She had drawings in her notebooks- all the different symbols the Society used. She'd crossed some of them out and revised them- she'd seen them at a distance and had to see them repeatedly to record them correctly. 

“The J.A. Society must have been using a way to contact Houston that didn’t involve computers (they were active well before email was widely available) or the post (too easily traceable, not convenient when your hitmen have no fixed abode). It wouldn't have been direct communication at their meetings, because the higher-ups were concealing the full extent of their activities from other members such as Lord Trevor. And Houston must have not been the only one they were contacting this way, or else they wouldn’t have needed to address the codes to him with the coordinates for Houston, Texas that preceded the location of each hit. There must have been a central pickup point for passing along information and jobs. From Victor's description, Houston was visually noticeable as one of the more dubious members. Once she’d gotten a basic idea of their purpose and had a glimpse of Houston himself, I think she immediately started to think of ways to protect her family, in case Lord Trevor’s involvement with the Society ever turned dangerous. It was probably after one of the meetings she had followed her father to. Waited someplace hidden till she saw Houston leaving. Then she followed him. Saw him collecting the code. Waited until he’d left, then went in and collected a few of them herself.” 

“Where was it?” 

“A theatre. I’d found a box of menus under her bed, all from a place called the Black Sea Theatre. Not only had I never heard of this place, but the prices on the menus were all absurd. A plate of olives for £51, for instance. A bit suspicious.” 

“Well, that and the fact that no teenage girl I’ve ever heard of collects menus from theatre cafés.” 

“Yes, that too (nothing escapes you, John). All the numbers on their own, however, built the coordinates code. I immediately left the Trevors’ home to go to London to track down the Black Sea Theatre. I found it through some old acquaintances who were currently illegally residing in it. It was, in fact, a theatre, but one that had been closed for over thirty years. Since then, it had been used solely by the J.A. Society- and, of course, by select indigent persons. The Society left copies of their mocked-up menus containing the codes lying around the lobby of the theatre for Houston and the other operatives to find, thinking that if anyone else found them, they would just look like leftover junk. There were dates on them, too, backdated to look like they came from when the theatre was open, but the day and month always coincided with deaths of prominent persons. Or less-prominent people whose deaths conveniently cleared the way for others. They were putting out a hit just about every week for a while, and Gloria collected all the codes, right along with Houston. 

“Though she had figured out how Houston knew who to kill, she still didn’t know what the last few numbers in the code meant. She didn’t figure that out until she got herself kidnapped and the J.A. Society oh-so-helpfully put a hit out on her kidnappers instead of paying them off, like Lord Trevor thought they would. Kidnapping is not so uncommon as everyone thinks. Especially in old, titled families such as the Trevors. It’s actually extremely commonplace to find a wayward child of a family in the peerage and hold them for ransom. It rarely makes the press. I used to turn down dozens of such cases.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock, but they’re just kids!” 

“Kids with families that don’t need my help to buy their way out of a comparatively safe situation. Ninety percent of the time a paycheque will clear it all up nicely. Anyway, the kidnappers who got their hands on Gloria Trevor got rather a rougher deal than they hoped for.” 

“Not to mention the girl herself.” 

“She could handle it,” Sherlock said, waving it off. 

“Yeah, she apparently handled it so well that she overdosed a few months later,” John said. 

"The week before she was kidnapped, there was something different. When she went to look for new codes to decode, she'd found scattered ticket stubs along with the menus. She picked them up but she couldn't have known what they meant till after. Probably thought it was still part of the coordinates code. It wasn't. It was simply a ticket with the title of a play.” 

"Which was?" 

"' _The Lady's Not for Burning_.' Christopher Fry, 1948. That's how Houston knew not to kill her. She was The Lady. It must have been the only time they gave him a target that wasn't on their own at the appointed time. I found it as soon as I got back to Norfolk after visiting the Black Sea. It was hidden in between the canvas and the frame. I’d checked the mark on the frame before I’d left and found the shop where she’d bought the painting. The building number and street location of the warehouse directly across from the shop matched with the last few numbers in the coordinates code that had the latest date on it. The one that matched the date of the ticket to the Fry play.” 

“That was the hit on her kidnappers, and she didn’t even know.” 

“She must have picked up the menu that had those coordinates on it after she’d woken up to a room full of dead bodies. She must have known it was a J.A. hit. She now had enough information to fully break the code, down to the room the targets would be found in. She bought a purposefully incongruous painting, as soon as she was free, in order to hide the evidence that could protect her family. She thought that if anything ever happened to her, Victor or her father would have seen that she must have been hiding something behind that offensive painting.” 

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, wishing for a cigarette. 

“I fucked it up, John. I couldn’t have fucked it up more if I’d tried.” 

“What do you mean? What happened?” 

“People respect ghosts, you see. More than they would if the person was alive. And I didn’t know. Not back then. I didn’t know that people listen to their dead. And it’s ridiculous, of course- mostly made up of guilt and the desire to avoid self-blame for any wrongdoing or neglect during a person’s lifetime.” 

“How did you fuck it up?” John asked softly. 

“People don’t like show-offs. Well, you know how I get. So wrapped up in a case- I couldn’t imagine how anyone else would not be as fascinated by every detail as I was.” 

John’s hands weren’t delicate like Sherlock’s. They held guns, they hit hard. So it was always a bit shocking how soft they could be, when John reached out and placed one on Sherlock’s wrist. So soft it hurt. 

“Well, I’d say, as a medical man, extended bouts with ‘meningitis’ can have that effect on people.” 

Sherlock couldn’t have stopped himself from laughing if he’d tried.


	67. Time Hath Sowed a Grizzle on Thy Case

###### 31 October 2010

Some kid had set or firecrackers a few streets away. Sherlock didn’t jump at the noise, but sprung up from him seat to the window. It was well into the night, and John had lost count of how many times this routine had been repeated. The warm light inside Baker Street made a mirror of the dark window, and John could see the frustrated face reflected in it, clearly on the edge of another profanity-strewn tantrum demanding cigarettes and bemoaning being cooped up inside. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, just come here,” John said preemptively. He opened the drawer to his right and pulled out a nicotine patch. Sherlock sulkily made his way to John’s chair and stuck his arm out. 

“Roll your sleeve up, then. I’m not your mother. You know, I told you we could go out…” 

Sherlock sighed dramatically. 

“I spent all day at the lab with Molly, why would I want to go see her at her house?” 

“Or there was Harry’s too,” John said, peeling the patch from its paper and smoothing it into the crook of Sherlock’s elbow. 

“You would have spent the whole time trying to figure out if she was cheating on her girlfriend. And I would have spent the whole time watching you miss the obvious. Yes, lovely time all ‘round, I’m sure.” 

“All I’m saying is that you can’t say you’re trapped in here when it was your choice to stay in.” 

Sherlock huffed, and fell backwards into the sofa. 

“I could tell you the rest, I suppose,” he said, glancing at John quickly from the corner of his eye. John chuckled. 

“You know I want to hear it, and you’re trying to get me to beg you to tell it. Well, I’m not gonna play. You can tell me if you like. If not, I’ll just go back to Jonathan Franzen. I could even read aloud, if you wanted...” 

Sherlock looked horrified. 

“Don’t you dare. Alright, I’ll tell you.” 

John put his book aside, doing his best not to look smug. 

“Gloria. She’d cracked the code. But that still didn’t prove anything. She couldn’t go to the police with any of this, didn’t have any hard evidence to pin on Houston.” 

“Right, and neither did you.” 

“She could have just looked the other way and do her best to forget, but no, that wasn’t her. All that running away. All that anger. She never hated her family. She just didn’t know how to deal with loving them. Filial crowd, those Trevors. She was set on making sure that her father was protected against any further stupidity he inflicted on himself and her brother. 

“I saw her writing out the code in her notebooks. She’d cracked it, now, the whole thing. There were pages in her notebooks that were dated for the months after she had been kidnapped. There were marks on her maps. She was developing her own code to trap Houston.” 

“What the hell was she thinking? Christ. Sounds like something you’d do. He was a professional hitman, was she going to _talk_ him into giving himself up or something?” 

“Didn’t need to. He’d only seen her face once- while she was asleep and he was busy murdering her kidnappers. He’d no idea she was on to him. She made her own coordinates code and kept a copy of it hidden behind that loathsome painting. She lay her bait and then lay in wait. Across the road, or course, from a condemned multi-storey car park. When Houston showed up to make his kill, he of course found no one there, but she got snaps of him entering and leaving the precise place the code had told him to go. I found Polaroids with the copy of her code. I suppose she just meant to keep them as insurance until her father inevitably ended up in over his head, but she died before she could use them.” 

“I don’t think Scotland Yard would have been able to make much of a case of a few photos and a bunch of numbers, though, could they?” 

“Not Scotland Yard, no, but I believe she would have gone directly to Houston, who would have very clearly seen the danger that her knowledge put him in with his employers and any competitive rivals or relatives seeking revenge. Police wouldn’t have been quite her style, anyway. Her father, the very embodiment of proper law and order, was after all the one who’d let her down. Who she’d had to do all this for to protect. 

“Once I uncovered this, I made a copy of the evidence and sent it to Houston, with the warning that though it was no longer in the Trevors’ possession, it was still ready to be used against him if they were harassed in any further manner. I went straight to Lord Trevor after that, and I told him everything. He didn’t want to know everything, apparently. That his own daughter was the one cleaning up his messes. That she’d been ready to face one of the deadliest hitmen in London in order to protect him. That he failed in protecting her. And that she died before he knew any of this.” 

“Jesus Christ. What did Victor think?” 

Sherlock pushed off the sofa and grabbed a Crunchie from the kitchen. He stuffed half into his face at once and tossed the other half across the room to John. 

“His father told me not to tell him. Unfortunately, the revelations were a bit much for Lord Trevor. He was heartbroken, quite literally. He’d been a sick man for year, but he had a heart attack on New Year’s Eve. It was rather expected. I went back to my work after that. Victor Trevor never heard from Houston again, as far as I know. All in all, not the most difficult or logically challenging case, but I suppose important inasmuch as it was the first time that I considered my work to be of a professional and deliberate nature." 

“Not the most difficult? You basically got to know a dead girl better than her father or her brother ever did.” 

“It took me days. My brother could have seen it in an hour.” 

“What, from his armchair? I don’t see him running back and forth from Norfolk to London to chat with some squatters.” 

“He’d have sent some of his lackeys to do it for him.” 

“So? He’s got his connections, you’ve got legwork. Not, as both of you have said, his strong point. That’s what this case took.” 

Sherlock shrugged. 

“Mycroft tried to wrangle me into some diplomatic position a while later, but thanks to the late Lord Trevor’s suggestion, I didn’t have time for anything Mycroft had to offer.” 

“Can’t imagine your brother took that well.” 

“Oh, Mycroft has always been so delightfully supportive of my decisions in life. Well, he would have taken it harder, I suppose, but I had a better alternative for him. I’d lost touch with Victor Trevor after his father’s death, but I formally recommended him for the job, which he of course managed to secure. Sent him out to Terai, I believe. 

“And that’s it. Started working professionally as a consulting detective after that.” 

“And where is he now? Victor?” 

Sherlock’s words were characteristically unemotional. They hit John in the stomach, though. 

“Oh, he’s dead. Been dead for years.”


	68. Myriad Choices of His Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you._

###### 2 January 2003

“Do you want me to stay for the funeral?” 

For the first time in days, the rain had let up. The sun was bright and sharp, cutting its way through the January chill. A patch of it shone in through the library’s single window, onto the red leather chair where Victor had spent the night. He shrugged, picked up a heavy amber glass ashtray from the table next to him and held it out to Sherlock, whose cigarette ash had just fallen to the worn Oriental rug. The silence in the absence of rain itched at Sherlock’s ears. 

“Your father’s heart was beyond healing, Victor, it was only a matter of time.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“It is generally agreed that death is preferable when family is around, isn’t it? You were there when he died, isn’t that what people want?” 

“What people want? Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“And you know it’s not like he was _happy_. Wasting away like he was.” 

Victor agreed once again, eyes fixed on the window. 

“Are you going to tell me what you said to him before he died? How you got Houston to back off?” Victor asked quietly. 

Sherlock’s eyes glinted as he considered, but the consideration lasted only a moment. He narrated every step in sharp and logical detail, while Victor remained still and expressionless till the story was complete. 

“Did Houston get your message?” 

“Yes, he’s been taken care of. I used the code, and the network of people living near the Black Sea Theatre, to let him know that if he tries to release any information or hurt your family- or what’s left of it I suppose- that we’ll get the word out that he was behind all those different hits. He was seen retrieving the message the night after I left it for him. It probably wouldn’t be sufficient for the Yard to make a conviction, but outing him professionally would definitely put his enemies as well as his former employers on his tail. I believe that is the protection your sister was endeavoring to secure.” 

“I’m sure it was.” 

“Come on, Victor, you can’t just sit here till you rot. I got the answer you wanted, I figured it out and saved your father’s name. Isn’t that worth something?” 

Victor’s gaze flew to Sherlock, like he had only just noticed he was there. 

“ _Worth_ something? _Worth something_? What, exactly, do you suppose it would be worth? Obviously not honoring my father’s wishes or my sister’s memory.” 

“His wishes? What are you on about? Houston would have continued blackmailing _you_ if I hadn’t fixed things, and you would have been more than happy to pay him every penny that came your way if it meant protecting your father’s name. I think Lord Trevor probably would have _not_ wished for that…” 

“You _told_ me, Sherlock. You told me every shameful thing my father wanted kept secret. Keeping those secrets _killed_ him, but I suppose that wasn’t good enough for you, you had to flout the very thing he asked you not to do.” 

“He’s _dead_ , Victor, it doesn’t matter anymore! You don’t care about things like that- people’s word and honor and reputation, you know that’s all rubbish! You think he’s going to come back and haunt you? We got the result, that _is_ what matters.” 

“I see, of course, the puzzle is the only important thing-” 

“For fuck’s sake, Victor, you _asked_ me to tell you!” 

“You could have told me he didn’t want me to know! But no, that would have forced you to think about someone other than yourself for once!” Victor yelled, catching himself quickly and looking away again, 

“No. I did. Of course I did. You’re right, what does it matter.” 

Sherlock pulled on his smoke and glared at Victor. 

“It’s fine. Did you want me to stay for the funeral, then? I will if you’d like.” 

“If I said yes, if I said I would _really_ like if you came, would you actually come or would something more important come up at the last minute and wipe it from your memory? It’s not something that actually _matters_ , anyway. Or would you show up high out of your mind, just to be able to face the idiocy that is church and funerals and people giving me their presumably insincere sympathies? I know that people dying and having feelings and so forth is a terrible inconvenience for you.” 

Sherlock smiled. 

“Your vicious streak always could rival my brother’s.” 

“I’m flattered.” He stood and moved to the nook where the liquor was kept, “But I am nothing like Mycroft Holmes.” He poured two glasses of scotch and handed one over. 

“Bit early for you, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked. Victor laughed. 

“You’re one to talk. Aren't things as illusory as time and social convention beneath your notice?” 

Golden scotch and golden sunlight. Red-rimmed eyes, red lips on the edge of a glass. Black curls that needed a cut and a comb, black shirts that needed an ironing. Blue eyes that could never in a million years be warm, and that he could not look into now without despair. 

“What will you do now?” 

“Sell this old pile of bricks, for a start, and get as far away from Norfolk as I can afford.” 

“Yes, obviously. Once you sell this place, we can probably afford something in Central London. I’ll have to be near there, anyway, for the work. No other criminals like London criminals, after all.” 

“‘We.’” 

“Who else do you suppose I could bear living with? Now that you’re finally not tied down here anymore. I don’t want to bother with having to get used to a new flatmate, and you’ve been on at me for years about it.” 

“And what will I do?” 

Sherlock waved the question away. 

“How should I know? You’ll find something, you always do.” 

Victor laughed again, and quickly swallowed most of the contents of his glass. 

"Well, I’m honored by the invitation. I am. But… I'll never be special enough for you, Sherlock. And if I was... It would just be competition for you. A challenge. I can't..." 

Victor stopped to realize the weight of the words in his mouth. They'd arrived without prompting, without invitation, without foreknowledge. His vision was bleary but everything else was very clear. 

One of those moments that come all at once, and there's no running back from them when they do. Moments when silent thoughts in the air must vibrate vocal chords to shape reality. Sherlock could tell what words were coming next, springing from the warm hum of Victor's throat, and he told himself that these words had always been inevitable, were always meant for him. 

"I can't do this anymore." 

And now it was real. 

"I can't take any more of this. I think we're at the point where we can't do anything more for each other. Except hurt." 

"You're bored of me." 

Sherlock threw it in his face with a smile. 

"I think we both are," Victor said, "We're done here." 

Sherlock’s spine stiffened, and his chin lifted one and three-quarter inches. Pride. 

"And you're off to be a detective now, you'll be fine, you don't need me. Other people just slow you down. Isn't that right?" 

Sherlock’s eyes were cool. Detached. If anything, contemptuous. And above all, dry. His breathing. Smooth, uninterrupted, not overly shallow or deep. 

“Of course I’ll be _fine_ , Victor. I assure you your concern is touching but unnecessary. I think we both have found better ways to occupy our time.” 

Victor’s nostrils flared. Anger. Forced down with a smile. 

“Quite so.” 

There was nothing more to say. 

Or if there was, neither said it. 

When Sherlock left the house that day, he knew himself better than when he had entered it. He knew who he had decided to be, and who he had decided to leave behind. A solitary man. A Consulting Detective.


	69. Such Love Could Be But Recompensed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me. And I'm feeling good._

###### 10 January 2004

“Please tell me we’re not doing birthdays now,” Sherlock said, whirling away with a sweep of his dressing gown, leaving the man at the door to shut it himself. 

“I should hope not,” Mycroft said, leaning his umbrella against the hatstand, “Sherlock, it is now a quarter past five in the afternoon. Don’t you think you could at least make some effort to act like a grown man and dress yourself?” 

“For your _information_ , Mycroft, just last night I wrapped up an immensely interesting and well-paying case..” 

“Ah yes, your ‘cases.’ Forgetful baronesses mislaying their trinkets? Distraught housewives pining after their philandering husbands? Not exactly how we imagined your future, Sherlock.” 

“No, I’m sure you imagined I’d be dead by now. If you’ve come to deplore my choice of career, could you please do it somewhere else? There are a good number of criminals behind bars that would lend you a very sympathetic ear.” 

“That is, in fact, what I am here to discuss. This hobby of yours has, in the last year, brought your name to the attention to certain… very influential personages. They inform me that there is a position that has recently become vital to fill with someone of extraordinary talents and commitment. You know how hard I’ve worked to explain your indiscretions. Covering your tracks could be seen as the crowning achievement of my life. There are many, _many_ others who have worked considerably harder than you have-” 

“For God’s sake, call them up then. I’ll help you find them, if you don’t know where to look.” 

“... _Considerably harder than you have_. And due to my tireless efforts to present you in a positive light, due to the reliability of your connections, these other candidates have been overlooked _in favor of you, Sherlock_. It’s a job. A career. A job you certainly do not deserve and a job that you _certainly/ _will not be lucky enough to be offered again. I urge you-”__

“What extraordinary talents?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“What sort of talents are they interested in?” 

Mycroft’s eyes glinted, sensing that this battle would not be as difficult as he had predicted. 

“This is more than I should be explaining to you at the moment, but… They are looking for someone highly logical, who performs well under pressure. Extreme pressure. Infiltration and commitment to a cover are vital, as is knowledge of cyphers, multiple foreign languages, someone able to mix effortlessly with the very best sort of people. That last point may take some work, and your Russian could use some brushing up, but…” 

“Well, I’m flattered, dear, I really am. And I would say I am, indeed, the best man for this job. I see only two slight problems. The first is that I’d rather die, and the second is that you’re obviously describing a bespoke position for Mr. Victor Trevor.” 

There were only a select, minute number of people who had seen Mycroft without his placid, icy mask. Sherlock led that group. The thundering admonitions, the blood-freezing glower and the animalistic snarl were quite familiar to him by now, and as he was now presented with them all, accompanied by the usual epithets of ‘ungrateful,’ ‘disgrace,’ ‘arrogant,’ and ‘suicidally stubborn,’ Sherlock fished out his last cigarette and popped two slices of bread in the broiler. 

“Toaster ended up in the bath,” he muttered when Mycroft stopped for air. “Yes, dear, you’ve absolutely gone above and beyond in my case and I’m sure you’ll be either sainted or knighted for it. But I’m afraid I’m just going to carry on being a disgrace and an embarrassment, if you don’t mind.” 

“Well I _do_ mind, very much…” 

“Why don’t you do something for someone else for once? You used to be such good chums with Trevor, weren’t you? And he’s already worked for you, so you know what a good little employee he is.” 

“Sherlock, please think about what you’re doing.” 

“Mycroft. I am. You should too. If your superiors find out that in your nepotistic machinations to secure a good position for your little brother, you neglected to tell them that you knew a much, _much_ more qualified and eager candidate... 

“Sherlock, wouldn’t you like to travel...” 

“I don’t need MI6 for that; I’ve managed well enough on my own.” 

Mycroft watched Sherlock butter both slices and finish them off in six bites. 

“I’m not going to put on a suit and be their Bright New Boy, Mycroft. I’m a consulting detective.” 

Mycroft sighed. The cut of his suit forbid such plebian postures, but there was a shadow of a slump about his shoulders. 

“Once, in a moment of frivolity- before you knew him- Trevor told me that his greatest dream in life was to marry some terribly rich fool and live out his days living well beyond his means.” 

“All Victor’s moments are frivolous. At least, they were before the two of us got our hands on him.” Sherlock’s eyes stopped flitting about every point of the room where his brother was not, and threw their dark focus on Mycroft, “Give him that job, Mycroft. Don’t you think we at least owe him that?”


	70. Restless Wanderer O’er the Earth

###### July 2004

The call came during a dinner at the Turkish ambassador’s in New York. Sherlock had just cleared the ambassador’s daughter unequivocally of a particularly wonderful murder. They were going into drinks in the hotel’s private lounge when his mobile shook. Mycroft. 

An undercover vehicle on the India-Pakistan border had been targeted by unknown opponents, and among its passengers had been Victor Trevor. He had, most likely, been the intended target, due to the nature of the project that he was currently involved with. The attack was a month ago. It had not- and would not- be reported. When Sherlock asked why, Mycroft very clearly did _not_ indicate that it was because the unknown identity of the attackers was meant to remain unknown. He said that Victor’s line of work was a dangerous one. That it was sometimes impossible to discern side from side. That he was keenly aware of how distressing this might be to his brother- but the phone was already back in Sherlock’s pocket. He turned his back on the elegant assembly. The night air on Fifth Avenue was warm and damp. Midtown Manhattan was no less empty after business hours, no less filled with traffic and blaring horns and radios. From the thirtieth floor, they could just about be drowned out by the sound of Sherlock’s violin. Played for two days straight through, till the hotel manager threatened to call the police. Then he really did get arrested, for pulling the emergency brake on the D train, to see how the response differed from the one in London. Switzerland after that. Got in a duel, of all things. Won. Didn’t kill him, just slowed him down considerably. Travelled east from there with the families Mirga and Badžo for a few months. Then Thailand. Singapore. Indonesia. Hong Kong. Tokyo. Through a misunderstanding (obviously not because of his flawless Japanese), was briefly employed by a Yakuza general. Then back to Europe. Wherever someone would hire him. Toured for a while through France, Austria, and Germany with an eminent national symphony, where he uncovered and stopped a conspiracy between the horn section and the second violins that had already left two clarinets dead. Became increasingly annoyed that Mycroft’s new position allowed him to be infuriatingly up to date on Sherlock’s whereabouts, so a year after 7/7, he made his way back to London, to see if he could evade Mycroft’s eyes right under his nose, so to speak. It worked, for a week, but the business with the felon in Florida rather blew his cover and then once he got involved with DI Lestrade it was nearly impossible to stay off Mycroft’s radar. 

He could never speak of 'belonging' anywhere with anything less than sarcasm, but if pressed, he supposed it would be London. Like a tree that grows around a chain, it had shaped his very being. The years he'd spent on those streets as a child, an adolescent, a young man, had caused London to be grafted onto his skin and injected into his bloodstream. 

Three years since he'd been in London for any substantial period. Over ten since he'd been there while clean more than half the time. Couldn’t say he wasn’t relieved to be back. Easy to keep busy in London. 

One week, some six months before Lestrade found him a flatshare on Montague Street, he was sleeping in the park. Had a dream Victor came and found him, like he always did, took him home and showed him his reflection in a coke razor, just to keep him still while Victor picked the snakes out of his hair. 

But when he woke up it was Mycroft’s assistant, poking him in the shoulder with one finger as if he would contaminate her, while Mycroft looked on with composure from the back of the sleek black car. No extra cigarettes stuffed in his pockets. No jacket left mysteriously to cover him. No Schubert fading into the shadows. 

_You were never here. You were never here. You were never here._


	71. Black Angel Did Weep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sacrificials remain make it hard to forget._

###### 8 February 2011

“Sherlock, I’m gonna need you to come down to the station as soon as you can.” 

“What is it, Lestrade? Must be something big, you’ve kept it out of the news and my brother hasn’t been appealing to my latent patriotism.” 

“No, it’s not a case. Not exactly.” 

“Then what?” 

“We brought in a girl this morning after a drugs bust. I have to say, an incredibly successful drugs bust at that. Pakistani girl. Cocaine, morphine, heroin, the lot. Thousands of pounds worth. She was using a tea shop as a front for her distribution. Ring any bells?” 

“None. Besides, drugs isn’t your division, why do you care?” 

“It’s always my division where you’re concerned, Sherlock.” 

“I told you, I don’t know her. How am I concerned?” 

“Because they found a parcel hidden in her things. A parcel with your name on it. The boys in Narcotics opened it and one of them gave me a call.” 

“There must be a message.” 

“Nothing. Just a watch.”

  


***

  


John’s face twisted moments after he walked into the sitting room. If Sherlock had been facing him, he’d have kept control over it. But Sherlock’s back was to him, and the slump of his shoulders, the deadly quiet, and the lingering scent of tobacco in the air all caused John to feel as if his heart was constricting. He allowed the sight to sink in, and took a few breaths to keep his voice steady. He wanted to be as calm as he possibly could. 

“So what is it tonight? Dope or coke?” 

Sherlock was unnervingly, absolutely still and silent. John’s heart tightened even more, and he hurried over to Sherlock’s chair. No spilled blood. Good. Eyes open- fixed and staring. No pupil constriction- possibly a slight dilation. Didn’t know Sherlock could get any paler, but ok. One hand went to Sherlock’s forehead and the other to his wrist. Cold, clammy, and his hands were shaking slightly, but no fever. 

“It’s neither,” Sherlock said, startling John, “Good guess though.” 

“What is it then? Sherlock, are you alright?” 

Sherlock’s eyes went to the phone on the table next to his chair. 

“It’s Victor.”

  


***

  


He saw her eyes scanning him as he entered the small, cold room. Scanning him for any physical weaknesses. Scanning to see if he was still using. 

“I’ve given it up,” he told her. She looked at him calmly, her hands folded in her lap, as if his words meant nothing to her. 

He sat down in the lone unoccupied chair and handed her a single cigarette and lighter. 

She took them wordlessly. 

“Why did you never say you knew him? All these years?” he asked. 

He held a cup of tea in his other hand. She watched the heat as it rose, spiralling, between them. 

“Were you going to use him to get at me? You may think you have material for blackmail, but I assure you, none of it is anything that most of the Yard and half the professors at-” 

He stopped as she laughed lightly and shook her head. 

“What is it then? Are you working for whoever got him killed? Played him for information and heard my name, thought you’d get my trust and try to wring a few secrets out of me as well? Before I went the same way he did?” 

“If I had wished to hurt you, you gave me ample opportunity. But instead I kept you safe. He kept me safe.” 

She flicked the lighter and held the flame to the cigarette tip. There was a recent burn across the back of her left wrist. 

“He gave you his watch so I would help you, then. Is that what you need from me?” 

She smiled at him. 

“I need you to drink that tea,” she said, “That café uses loose leaves. I’m going to read them.” 

When Lestrade came to the cell door, he found Sherlock and the girl, both ignoring him, bent over Sherlock’s cup. Between drags of her cigarette, she was telling him what the different shapes in the bottom of his cup meant. She pointed at one. Said that it meant that he would soon hear from a long-lost friend. That the wet clump next to it meant he had made a new one. One that could not be lost. 

“And that shape,” she said, “That is Death. For you. At its right is Resurrection. Well, the possibility of it. Death is much bigger.” She exhaled a slow stream of smoke, “You may die. But you will never be turned to stone.” 

“That was a bit _Harry Potter_ , wasn’t it?” Lestrade asked, once the door was shut behind them. 

“Hm?” Sherlock wasn’t listening. 

“Never mind. You find out what an envelope with your name on it was doing in her things?” 

Sherlock mulled the question over, rather obviously concocting a lie. 

“Well, Lestrade, my work exposes me to any number of unwholesome characters, perhaps a possession of mine ended up in some pawnbroker’s daughter’s things.” 

“You’re not even gonna try to make a convincing story, are you? Christ’s sake. Alright. I suppose you can keep the watch, can’t see that it has anything to do with her drugs charges,” Lestrade said, rolling his eyes and handing Sherlock a very old and well-worn wristwatch. Sherlock took it, and ran his thumb over one of the holes in the leather band. 

“Is it a Holmes Family heirloom or something? You gonna start wearing it then?” 

“It was never mine to wear.”

  


***

  


“What was her name?” 

“The girl’s? I’ve no idea.” 

“But you said you’ve known her for years.” 

“I bought drugs from her, why would I need to know her name?” 

“You said you’ve been to her house.” 

“Yes, but not for a nice chat and a cup of tea.” 

“Well, you can always pop round during visiting hours at Holloway.” 

“Oh, she’ll be fine. I’ve already put in a call to Mycroft. It was illegal housing so he’ll probably have them say it wasn’t hers, that she wasn’t the sole occupant, something along those lines.” 

“So you won’t bother to learn her name but you’ll call in your brother to get her out of a prison term.” 

“I really don’t care what her parents decided to name her or what she calls herself and I don’t see why I should." 

“What did she tell you?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

“You don’t put stock in drug-dealer-fortune-tellers, do you, John? And you, a medical man.” 

“I’m more curious about how she’s connected to your only friend from university. Do you think she was working for the people that got him killed?” 

“No. I don’t think so. She didn’t say much at all, especially on that front. He’d never have let someone take that watch off his wrist against his will while he was alive, and I don’t think it would be in such good shape if he’d been wearing it when he died,” Sherlock said, electing, as always, to be flippant in regards to the gruesome details of Victor’s death which his brain insisted on supplying to him. But flippancy wasn’t John’s style. 

The right masseter tightened in John’s face and his eyes slipped away from Sherlock’s, down to the floor. Sherlock could have punched himself. He wasn’t the only one with images of exploding Land Rovers dancing in his head. So damn stupid. 

“She told me that I’ll hear good news soon. You know. Usual vague implications,” he said hurriedly, flooding out his previous words. 

“Nothing else?” John asked, with tired sarcasm in his voice. 

“Well, she didn’t try to sell me any drugs, if that’s what you mean.” 

John smiled and sighed. 

“Would have been quite a brash move on her part, I suppose. But, you know, if she did- not that she would, but just hypothetically. If she did. And if you said yes. I’d still- You could still count on me. I mean, you could count on me to be bloody furious, too. But even though I would be, I wouldn’t leave you on your own. You know. Walk out on you or anything. Is what I’m trying to say. That’s all.” 

Sherlock had an overwhelming urge to run into the next room and shut the door whenever John said things like this to him. Stay hidden for a few hours until he pulled himself together. He looked at John- not the John who sat in the chair opposite him, _that_ one he was avoiding eye contact with for the moment- but the John in his mind, who he was always immediately able to recall in perfect detail, hovering just up and to the left. Loud, confident young man turned soldier. Turned into this. His John. Quiet. Honest. Open. Open even though he, too, wanted to run into some other room behind a door and pretend not to exist until this soul-bearing nonsense was far behind them. But he didn’t. And because he didn’t, Sherlock didn’t either. 

“And you know, you had it easy the last time, I don’t know how you did it but I’ve seen lads in much less deep that you were, having a much harder time getting out of it. And if it ever comes to that, I’ll stick it out, if you’re screaming at me and throwing the whole damn bookshelf at my head. But as I said, I would really fucking appreciate it if we never got to that point.” 

That point. 

That point fifteen years ago. When in between shitting himself senseless or vomiting his brains out, he’d somehow managed to frantically pass his classes. Not somehow. With Victor’s help. Clinging to Victor when he felt the earth was spinning so fast it would shake him loose. 

That point four years ago. When he hadn’t slept in over a week. When he punched Lestrade in the face and broke two fingers. 

That point six months after that. Showing up once again on Mrs. Hudson’s doorstep, giving himself over to her administrations. Bowls of broth. Damp flannels on his forehead. Once he was well enough, slipping out without a goodbye while she was at the shops. 

Yes, that point. 

Sherlock nodded. 

“I said before, I can’t promise you anything. Except that... I never want to put anyone through that again. Especially you.”


	72. It’s All Over Now, Coomassie Blue

###### 11 February 2011

John’s footsteps, coming in from the street, were intercepted by Mrs. Hudson’s voice. His answered in reply, and then after a silent moment, he resumed his way up to the flat. Sherlock never looked up from the tip of the pipette, especially when he felt the ghost of a shake shudder through his wrist when John came up so close to him and he could smell the cold air he’d carried in from outside, mixing with the smell of John himself and seeping out from John’s coat and his chapped red hands. 

He didn’t look up when he realized how quiet John was being, either. No chatter, no questions about shopping or tea or cases. 

“What is it?” he asked, still staring at the little wells of blue. 

“Post’s just come. You’ve got… it’s postmarked from Terai.” 

Sherlock’s head snapped round to look at John. John’s face- concern. Fear. His fingers turned immediately icy at the sight of the battered envelope John held out to him, covered in stamps and the most familiar writing. 

His name from Victor’s pen. And underneath that, in the same unmistakable hand, the address he’d called home for just over a year. 221B Baker Street. 

“I can go upstairs if you like. I can go out if you’d rather- if you want some space,” John mumbled. 

“No. Stay.”

  


_My dear little gargoyle-_

_No. I suppose I can’t call you “little” anymore, although I’m sure your gaze still turns the faint of heart to stone. And you’re far from mine._

_This is a strange letter to write. Must be a strange one to read. Firstly, I’m not dead. At least I wasn’t when I wrote this, and I have no current plans to alter that situation. I regret that I cannot offer you any further explanation on this account. But I am safer, and sounder, than I would be if the world never believed me gone. I am sorry if believing the lie, or discovering the truth, has caused you pain. I am truly sorry._

_I wrote this as soon as I heard my contact had been compromised. It’s alright, she’ll be fine; this is not to ask your assistance. I gave her my watch so you would help her if she was ever in trouble and I was no longer able to. Her name’s Asiyah, by the way, or at least her code name is. All those years and you never bothered to ask her- really, Sherlock._

_I could never stop you from doing anything, the least I could do was make sure if you insisted on using, you had a reliable source, which afforded me news of you, my old friend._

_I said I’d check up on you, didn’t I? See if you’d make it to 30. Well, you made it, dear. Proved me wrong. No help from me, although I wish I could say otherwise._

_But that was the whole problem. I was never equipped to be your keeper, and I was arrogant in thinking that I was. Children taking care of children. Not one of your brother’s finest moments. Definitely not one of mine. Nor yours. Those came later. Those are coming now._

_I write to you now because we are older, we are wiser, we have survived. We hurt each other through ignorance and pride- unavoidable sins of youth, perhaps, but ones that can scar. I am glad to see that the people you have surrounded yourself with are people who won’t give up on you. People you won’t get bored of, if I can presume to hazard a prediction._

_I would tell you to take care, I would tell you to keep warm, but you are not my charge. You have shown that you are your own man. On the cold January morning that you woke up numbering 30 years of age, I hope you were assured in the knowledge that you arrived through strength that is entirely your own, and that you live a life that is entirely yours._

_We are better._

_I wish you the best the world can offer. I wish you more than you could ever know you wanted._

_I wish you love. I’d send you mine, but I’m saving it for one who has a better use for it._

_From one who knows your worth-_

_-V._


	73. Blind Eyes and Empty Hearts

###### 12 February 2011

“Seven years.” 

“What?” 

“Seven years he went without letting you know. Aren’t you... it would be understandable if you were upset.” 

“What does the length of time have to do with it? Logically I would have _less_ reason to be upset, considering the longer period since his presumed death.” 

“No, I mean, Sherlock- it would be understandable if you were feeling...” 

“What?” 

“Betrayed.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Good. Fine.” 

“It’s not me who was dead, why should I be upset?” 

“You were his friend. It’s just... to get that message to you in secret, that must have taken a lot. It means he still cares enough about you that he wants you to know, even after all this time. But he must have a really important reason for staying silent even now.” 

Sherlock squinted at John in that exasperating way that made John feel as if Sherlock was sincerely doubting that John’s communication skills were based in a native proficiency in the English language. 

“Look, all I mean is that it must have been something big to warrant all this secrecy. It must be... not just his life at stake. Which I’m sure you know. But even still, seven years is too long.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed even further. 

“Too long.” 

“Yes, seven years is too long to let someone that close to you believe something like that.” 

“Enlighten me John, is there a more appropriate length of time than seven years?” 

“Christ, you’re being thick on purpose- I _mean_ , if it was me in your place I’m sure I’d be having a very difficult time, and no one would think any worse of you if you were too. Seven years alone is too long.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and went back to his newspaper. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” 

Mycroft called Sherlock later on that day, to tell him that he’d put in the call, but that the woman had already been released, without any explanation and with no record of her ever having been taken in. There was also no record of who was responsible. 

“Some goings on within the government are best kept away from the government’s knowledge,” he said, “With our express permission, of course.” 

John laughed when he heard this. 

“It’s your Victor, I’ll reckon. He’s got Mycroft’s blind eye, what an honor.” 

Silently, John wondered what Victor had of Sherlock’s, and if it was his heart. Sherlock saw John’s eyes move to his face, and then to the left side of his chest, and then quickly to the floor. 

“ _Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile_ ,” Sherlock thought, “ _And I gave him use for it: A double heart for his single one_.”


	74. I’ll Speak to Thee in Silence

###### 13 March 2011

He watched his hands at the bow and the neck of the violin. Waiting his turn. When they stopped moving it would be his chance to jump in. Part of him wanted to go over close and grab a hand and hold it still beneath his own, but he knew he would never dare. Would be like barging in on someone talking to themself. Other people might do that to him, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t tell him to shut up. He watched his hands, and hardly even heard the sounds they made. 

They drew apart and settled, holding the instrument, at either side of Sherlock’s body. Only then did John come fully into the front room, out from under the doorframe. Cleared off both chairs at the table and took one for himself. Sherlock stayed at the window but John could sense he was waiting for him to speak. So he obliged. 

“Tell me the rest,” he said. Sherlock turned his profile to John and flicked his bow up, tapping it lightly against his shoulder. 

No reply. John fidgeted with his cuffs and tried to hold on to the impetus that drove him to demand that Sherlock continue. 

“About the Norfolk case. Please?” 

“I told you the rest ages ago, John. We’d grown apart and after the business with his father, I recommended him for a diplomatic position in Terai where he was-” 

“Why did you and Trevor grow apart? What happened?” 

Sherlock, who had made his way over to the table and cleared-off chair while he was talking, got up again suddenly to snatch up a little blue ball he’d picked up somewhere and pelt it across the room at the long-suffering wall. Catch and repeat. Repeat. Repeat while pacing the width of the room. John remained at the table and stayed very still, both to avoid getting hit in the crossfire and because he didn’t want extra movement add static to Sherlock’s nerves. Knew the question was a big enough question itself without distracting him with sudden movements. When he saw the blue blur in his peripheral vision, his reflexes snapped to attention. His hand shot up and caught the ball inches from his face. Sherlock pounced face-forwards towards him, grabbing the table and the back of John’s chair. 

“‘What happened,’ John? _You’re_ already putting up with me by acting like I’m some animal that you have to try not to startle. What do you think happened? How long do _you_ think you’ll be able to stand me?” he asked. He seized the ball fiercely out of John’s hands and resumed his assault on the wall. John’s lips were pressed tight together. Eyes in his lap. Measured silence. 

“I’m not just ‘putting up with you,’ you know.” More silence. “It’s... You’re not a freak, Sherlock. You’re amazing.” Plucking at his cuffs again. 

Sherlock stopped pacing but kept pelting the ball and catching it from where he stood. 

“Why do you want to know so much about him?” 

“Nothing. No reason. I just like hearing about... you’re my friend. Sharing things about your life- it’s what friends do.” 

John had counted on Sherlock to accept his words, expected him to accept John’s authority on all things friendly, social, and normal. He hadn’t expected Sherlock’s face to turn to him and for his eyes to bore into him knowingly. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to see right through him. 

“Is it. Is that what friends do.” 

“Well- alright, obviously you were friends with Victor once, too, and it took you a year to even mention he existed. Is it because he moved on? Is it because you got tired of him...” 

“No.” 

John threw up his hands in frustration and instantly regretted it- stay calm, stay cool. 

“Then what is it?” Tried to ignore the look that spread across Sherlock’s face. He never meant this question to hurt. Never meant it like a betrayal. Plow ahead. Get it out. “Because I feel like I have to ask. Am I going to end up like Victor Trevor? A story you never tell?” 

“I’ve told you.” 

“Well _hardly_ ever tell, and when you do, only in half-truths? What happens to your friends, Sherlock?” In the silence he was agonizingly aware of the sound of his own breathing, carefully controlled. 

When Sherlock began speaking, it was halting. Uncertain. Like ages ago in the restaurant, when he thought John was flirting with him. But that was it- not just uncertain. Apologetic. 

“John.... I don’t honestly know what I can give you. What I can promise you. What... What I’m capable of.” 

And just like that, all denials, all protestations of ignorance or indifference, were all too pointless to be spoken. Maybe it was still a bit of an invisible elephant, but it was one that was trumpeting loudly through their silence. Sherlock continued. 

“But I think you are... I think you and I- I think we are... extraordinary.” 

“Extraordinary.” 

“Yes. And I...” Broke off. Tossed the ball into a corner. Wrapped his dressing gown around him. Spun round on one foot and rushed out, into the kitchen. John stayed where he was. Wondered if that was it. Took a few deep breaths and rubbed his face, now that Sherlock couldn’t see him. 

Their words hung in the air. A sustained note. John found himself pleading with God that they wouldn’t drop it, that that wouldn’t be it. The next words mattered. 

A cup of tea. He placed it in front of John. Hadn’t made one for himself. Just for John. Long fingers lingered on the handle, and then were replaced by John’s. Sherlock was back at the window. Faced away. 

“Sherlock...” 

“Does it need saying?” He’d cut John off, which was good, since John hadn’t known what he would say next. _It_. It was an acknowledged something. John smiled. Invisible elephant. Well, Sherlock could always see the invisible, couldn’t he. Maybe they didn’t need to paint it to know its shape. Really hadn’t expected any of this. 

“Maybe not. Thanks... for the tea. And Sherlock?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think we’re extraordinary, too.”


	75. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Thank you all SO MUCH for reading. Thank you knightlypatroclus (formerly missneutrino) for helping me out. You are an epic. Thank you consultingfeels for the WIP service. Thank you to everyone who commented and sent me information. Sometimes I would think nobody was reading and nobody cared, and then your comments would make me so warm and happy.  
> Thank you for reading this story about these damaged and ridiculous dudes who can't communicate to save their lives. I hope you enjoyed it.  
> I loveee yoooouuuuuu!!!

###### 8 April 2011

6:00 am. Haze still hanging in the streets. Sherlock gripped the black-painted iron raining. Paint inches thick on the bars. Several stories above the ground. Held very still, checking and double-checking. Only one chance for this one. Had to be today. 

On his way back to Baker Street, Sherlock took a check of the conditions. Humidity- well over fifty percent, probably closer to eighty. Air warm and thick. So thick that it dampened the noise around him, leaving his thoughts clearer, his heartbeat louder. Heavy cloud covering- no moon tonight. Still, couldn’t wait till dark. Would probably rain- possibly problematic, but he could bring a plastic sheet to wrap it in. No matter. 

Almost home. Would have to present the day’s activities in a way that won’t scare John off. Not that he’d actually say no. He’d probably want to call Lestrade first though. Won’t do. No getting around the illegality of this one. 

John would pretend to be put out. Pretend to disapprove, but Sherlock knew it would just be a cover to himself, when truly, he’d be ready to go as soon as Sherlock asked him. He knew that. And when they got back, he would throw his head back and laugh and call Sherlock ridiculous. Not laughing _at_ him, though. Never at him. Sherlock would be laughing too. Ridiculous. And if they were almost caught, if they’d had to run... No matter what caution John preached, it was always when they’d almost been caught that he laughed the hardest, collapsing back into his armchair and gazing at Sherlock with... with what? Too much to ask. Sherlock considered being more than usually careless today, so they’d have to run, so he could see that look on John’s face... no. Get in and get out. Get John back to Baker Street at the end. No mistakes. 

Back at 221B. John still asleep. Sherlock made coffee. Put John in a good mood. Or at least, he thought it would. John still didn’t look too happy when Sherlock shook him awake. 

“Don’t look at me like that, I let you sleep till 7:30.” 

“Sherlock, you only let me go to bed three hours ago. You just made me stay up while you sat there and didn’t utter a sound!” 

“I was thinking things through. I thought I might have to say it out loud. And look, I made you coffee.” 

John eyed the cup warily. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“It’s _fine_ , I promise.” 

“What do you want?” John said, taking the cup. Sherlock grinned. 

“How do you feel about a minor spot of burglary?” 

“How minor?” 

“Not that minor.” 

“Erm.... it’s a bit early to be sure, but I guess if it’s in a good cause and all...” 

“The Turner painting. It _is_ in Peter Ricoletti’s possession. It’s in his house.” 

“Great. The place that you said was one of the most cunningly protected places in the country?” 

“Yes. Which is why we have to break into it today. In daylight. It’s the only time there’s a security loophole. And it has to be today- the family comes home tomorrow, so today’s our last chance.” 

John stared at Sherlock blankly. He was clearly considering, but trying to look disapproving. 

“But it’s not just the painting, John. Ricoletti’s got an email saved on the hard drive of his laptop. Virtually unhackable. That email is one half of a conversation- I’ve read the other half- and this half provides the information we need to find Pritchards.” 

“The... missing banker?” 

“Kidnapped.” 

“I thought you said you didn’t want anything to do with that case.” 

“It would be harder to avoid solving it than to solve it at this point. Break into Ricoletti’s, get the painting, get the laptop, find Pritchards. Simple. Two birds.” 

“In broad daylight.” 

“Got a problem with that?” 

John considered the question, taking a long sip of coffee. 

“John, are you with me?” 

“...Yeah, alright. I guess that qualifies as a good cause.”

  


***

  


Sherlock watched John packing their kit full of everything they’d need- lock picks, rope and crowbar, karabiners, gloves. Watched him load his gun and tuck it into his jeans. Lace his running shoes and strap his tools under his black hoodie. Nothing unnerved John in times like these. Nothing unnerved Sherlock, either, but that went without saying. Most people- most respectable, honest, people- which John undoubtedly was, most of the time- would balk at a situation like this. Would wring their hands and sweat and wonder who they’d call if they were arrested. Not John. John was always the same John- straightforward, quietly down to business. And when they got back, John would make the tea and fall back into the sofa, complaining about how Sherlock left the grappling hooks buried in the cushions. Letting laughter shake his body, opening up the crossword or turning on the telly, as if committing multiple felonies first thing in the day was the most normal thing they could be doing. 

Sherlock loved that about him. 

Sherlock loved him. 

They set out for Ricoletti’s in the pouring rain. Sherlock reminded John that he was a detective, not a weatherman.

  


***

  


The roll of canvas tucked into his belt and the laptop case swinging from his shoulder made climbing down awkward and halting, and the rain made his hands numb and his fingers clumsy. They gripped the rope as tight as they could and he froze there, dangling more than thirty feet from the ground. 

“You alright, Sherlock?” 

John’s voice- urgent and worried. Sherlock thought of the hands holding the rope steady at the edge of the window. Never had to worry about those. Steadier and stronger than iron. Never in a thousand years would he have to doubt that they would be there, keeping him steady, keeping him safe. He tilted his head up to the window, to the voice, and squinting through the lashing drops, found John’s face looking down at him. 

“Sherlock! You okay? What’s the matter?” 

“No, I’m alright, John.” 

It was almost unbelievable how dry his throat had just gone, compared to the rest of his drenched body. He could feel his heart thundering against one of his clenched fists, and he had to shout a bit for his voice to carry up. 

“John. I love you.” 

John’s eyebrows drew together in- in what? Confusion? Surprise? John rolled his eyes and laughed. 

“So do I, you dick! Now get the fuck down before we’re caught or drowned or I drop you.” 

Sherlock’s heartbeat refused to slow, and if anything, only increased in speed. A rush of warmth spread through his face and extremities, and he moved hand over hand downwards, blood and rain both pounding in his ears. 

He could still hear John, however, though John was only speaking to himself. 

“Well, a little paint never hurt an elephant,” Sherlock heard him mumble, and he could hear the curve of a grin in his voice. He could not place any relevant meaning with the idea of painted elephants. He considered that John may have been a bit mad, a sight more peculiar than the general populace realized. Thank God. 

Sherlock’s soles hit the pavement and he readied himself to help John down the rope. He grinned up at the man coming down to join him, readying himself to run, run, run, and he knew that home would always be John Watson.


End file.
